DESIGN 

FOR 

MURDER 


FREDERIC ARNOLD RUMMER 




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DESIGN FOR MURDER 



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DESIGN 

FOR 

MURDER 

A Novel 


By 

Frederic Arnold Kummer 

n 



Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company 

1936 New York 


Boston 











Copyright, 1936, by 
FREDERIC ARNOLD KUMMER 


All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


Printed September, 1936 


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PfUNTEP IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



98505 W 


— •A- C2> -2/ QzL 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


I 

Stephen Ransom’s first impression of Halfway House 
was a delightful one. 

A wainscoted hall, with two grizzled Scotch deer¬ 
hounds licking his fingers. The long, low morning room 
... a horizontal sweep of gayly colored chintz. Many 
standing figures, crossing it in dark vertical lines. Be¬ 
yond them a doorway, its opening almost filled by a huge 
cluster of hydrangeas. Vivid blue blossoms as big as musk- 
melons, against a fainter turquoise sky. Hydrangeas in 
April. The marble vase that held them, with its ring of 
dancing bacchantes, might have come from an ancient 
Roman garden. Brilliant sunlight gave it a warm, mellow 
patina, like old gold. The simple, stark beauty of the ar¬ 
rangement left him breathless; the next moment he was 
greeting Mrs. Kirby. 

“Good of you to ask me,” he.murmured. 

She laughed nervously, shaking her head; it made her 
jewelry rattle. Too much jewelry, Steve thought, for an 
informal luncheon. For any luncheon. Priceless earrings, 
a pearl necklace, bracelets. They seemed to clash with the 
blue hydrangeas, the graceful vase. A matter of taste. Her 
eyes, however, were simple and rather plaintive. 

7 


8 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I saw your play,” she said. “The detective one. Liked 
it a lot. You know I’m interested in the theatre. We’ll 
talk, later. Now you’ll want a drink. Edward!” She 
beckoned a liveried servant carrying a tray. “And to meet 
some of these people. Mrs. Conover . . . Judge Tyson” 
. . . her nod embraced a couple near by . . . “this is Mr. 
Ransom; he writes plays. And . . . oh . . . Count de 
Zara,” she added as a dark, immensely broad man joined 
the group. “Yes, Edward.” Smiling, she moved away, 
rather quickly, Steve thought. 

He shook hands, juggling his cocktail. 

“We’ve been talking about murders,” Mrs. Conover 
laughed. She was small and blonde and suavely soignee, 
like a fragile figurine at de Zara’s elbow; he could have 
crushed her in one of his powerful hands. “Judge Tyson, 
you know, is an expert on the subject; he’s sent dozens of 
murderers to the gallows.” 

“Dear me!” The judge, plump and smiling as a well-fed 
bishop, regarded Mrs. Conover with a merry eye. “Is that 
nice? Before luncheon, too. Bad for the appetite. Any¬ 
way, I’ve retired from the bench.” 

“But you did say there had been a murder in this house,” 
Mrs. Conover persisted, shivering gracefully. 

“That is not good!” De Zara brushed back his coarse, 
polished hair. “In my country the people think that mur¬ 
ders, like goats and . . . and chickens, breed . . .” 

“How horrible!” Mrs. Conover shivered again, as 
though she enjoyed it. “Have you a little murderer in 
your home? Ugh!” 

The judge finished his cocktail. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


9 


“At the time I spoke of,” he said, glancing about the 
long, low room, “this was not a home . . ” 

“What was it, then?” Steve asked, puzzled. 

“A tavern ... an inn. No doubt the Father of his 
Country slept here more than once . . . although with 
whom, if anyone,” the judge added, chuckling, “history 
does not say. It was called ‘The Half Way House,’ I sup¬ 
pose, because of its location between Alexandria and some 
point in Maryland . . . Bladensburg, perhaps. Washing¬ 
ton, the city, of course hadn’t been built then. I imagine 
this was used as a tap-room . . .” 

“But the murder?” Mrs. Conover insisted. 

The judge shook his head, frowning. 

“Like a puppy with a root. Or a cat with a mouse. Well, 
I’ve always maintained that women are more bloodthirsty 
than men. The proprietor, I understand, finding his wife 
in the arms of an admirer, promptly strangled her.” 

“How inconsiderate!” Mrs. Conover laughed, wrinkling 
her small, impudent nose. “He should have strangled the 
admirer.” 

“Perhaps the gentleman escaped by the window, the 
garden.” Judge Tyson gazed over the blue hydrangeas to 
the sweep of lawn beyond. “There is a double row of box 
trees outside at least fifteen feet high. A perfect lover’s 
lane. Not so tall, a century ago, of course, but tall enough 
to serve the purpose. English box, you know, grows only 
an inch or so a year . . .” 

“Really.” Count de Zara moved away, covering a yawn. 
“If you excuse”. . . he joined a tall, handsome girl stand¬ 
ing near the door. 




10 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Russian?” Steve inquired, gazing after him. 

“No. Dalmatian, I believe.” Mrs. Conover’s lips curled 
wickedly. “Anyway, some kind of a spotty breed. That’s 
Jean Kirby he’s after. I’ll bet the senator doesn’t like it. 
I know his wife doesn’t; she’s told me so. Furious! These 
Continental business men certainly do know their Brad- 
street.” 

“I have never,” Steve said, “seen such a chest and shoul¬ 
ders. He has Primo Camera beat . . .” 

“Probably got them pulling on ropes or something. Just 
one of the Volga Boatmen boys. Or is it Jugo-Slavian? 
I don’t believe all the titles I hear. Why . . . hello.” 
Mrs. Conover turned as a slender, distinguished looking 
man joined them. “Dr. Badouine, you know Judge Tyson, 
don’t you? And Mr. Ransom; he writes plays, although 
I’m ashamed to say,” she added with a small laugh, “I’ve 
never seen any of them.” 

“Not surprising,” Steve grinned. “They don’t run be¬ 
yond Opus Number i, so far. Although I’ve finished a 
second; am trying right now to get someone to pro¬ 
duce it.” 

“Better talk to Mrs. Kirby; she’s mad about the stage. 
I hope it’s a detective play. We’ve just been talking about 
murders, doctor. That sort of thing ought to be right in 
your line . . .” 

“Really?” Dr. Badouine’s large brown eyes flashed with 
humor; he smiled at the judge. “Luckily we physicians 
can make mistakes without being hung for it . . .” 

“But ... I didn’t mean that, darling.” Mrs. Conover 
laid a tender hand on the doctor’s arm. “I was speaking 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


ii 


of detecting crimes, not committing them. Dr. Badouine,” 
she explained to Steve, “is a psycho-analyst. He doesn’t 
finish you off with knives or drugs.” 

“I’ve always thought,” Steve said, “that a good psychia¬ 
trist might do a pretty fine job, as a detective. Getting at 
motives, all that . . ” 

The doctor laughed; the suggestion did not seem to dis¬ 
please him. 

“A psychiatrist,” he said, “really is a detective. He 
spends his time tracking down inhibitions, complexes, 
dragging them out into the open. Helping his patients to 
get rid of them. Such mental quirks are apt to be danger¬ 
ous killers ... if not of the body, then of the mind. I’ve 
spent weeks, months, sometimes, on their trail.” He turned 
to Mrs. Conover, who still had her hand on his arm. “I 
promised to show you the hyacinths; they should be in 
bloom, now.” 

“Charming woman,” the judge said, as the two moved 
off. 

“A widow?” Steve asked. 

“Not officially. Her husband, I believe, prefers New 
York and the Racquet Club as a steady diet; Mrs. Conover 
likes Washington, and its, er . . . attractions . . . better.” 

Steve glanced about the room. About twenty guests in 
all, he thought. Laughing, chattering. He caught bits of 
conversation, fragments. “Not a chance, I tell you . . . 
the Supreme Court settled that!” “Huh! Nine old men! 
Ought to change our national motto to read ‘In the Su¬ 
preme Court we Trust!’ Ridiculous!”. . . Certainly 
the Abyssinians aren’t Christians!”. . . “Is that so? Then 





12 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


all I can say is there are going to be a lot of disappointed 
Ethiopians hanging around the Pearly Gates!”. . . “Yes, 
I prefer the lighter shade; I hear Mrs. Roosevelt uses 
it.”. . . “They tell me Senator Kirby expects to land a 
cabinet job, if his party wins the next election”. . . “You 
mean Lawrence Dane, the actor? Yes, he’s here. Over by 
the door talking to Jean Kirby. And that big foreigner 
who looks like a gorilla. De Zaza, or something”. . . 
f “Sure . . . I’ll speak to the Secretary about it at once.” 

Judge Tyson followed Steve’s glance. 

“Mrs. Kirby,” he said, “likes unusual people; always 
tries to get together an interesting crowd. Actors, poli¬ 
ticians, titled foreigners . . . writers,” he added, smiling. 

“Which is Senator Kirby?” Steve said; “I’ve never met 
him.” 

“Over there by the fireplace. The tall, bony man that 
looks like a Westerner. Which he is. The little fellow 
with the sandy hair is his lawyer, Luke Reed. The lob¬ 
byist. Smart as a fox. Looks like one, too. Come along 
and I’ll introduce you.” 

The room was choked with a verbal clatter. As they 
came near the two men Steve heard Luke Reed’s voice, 
razor-sharp, cutting through. 

“Don’t be a fool, Tom! If you do, it’ll mean your ruin! 
I’m telling you!” Senator Kirby, over the heads of the 
crowd was staring harshly at his wife. 

The Judge coughed. A tentative cough. 

“Hello, Tom! How are you, Luke!” he said. “Shake 
hands with Mr. Ransom, one of our budding young play¬ 
wrights.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


13 


The two men, Steve thought, were displeased by the 
interruption. 

“Still very much in the bud,” he laughed. “You have a 
wonderful house, Senator. I appreciate being asked to it. 
If you don’t mind I’ll have a look around. See you later.” 
He strolled off, paused near the doorway to pat one of the 
deer-hounds. A slim, well-shaped girl with dark, shining 
hair and very direct grey-blue eyes came up to him; her 
knitted silk suit fitted her supple body like the skin of an 
apple. 

“Are you Mr. Ransom?” she said. 

“Guilty.” Steve straightened up, smiling. 

“I’m Ann Vickery. Mrs. Kirby says you’re to take me in 
to lunch. Out, rather.” She nodded toward a glassed-in 
terrace covered with small tables. “Five minutes, yet; we 
may as well sit down.” She sank on one of the chintz- 
covered sofas. “If you want a cocktail wave for it. I don’t, 
just now. They tell me you live in Baltimore.” 

“Yes,” Steve said, scratching the dog’s muzzle. “And 
you?” 

“New York. I’m down here for a few days giving esti¬ 
mates on doing over Mrs. Kirby’s personal suite . . . I’m 
an interior decorator. Do you like the house?” 

“Swell . . . what I’ve seen of it. This room. And espe¬ 
cially those flowers in the doorway. A perfect touch. Ex¬ 
quisite!” 

“Yes.” Ann Vickery nodded. “I thought they’d look 
well there. Had them brought in from the conservatory 
this morning. The vase was down by the lily-pond. I 
suppose you’ve seen the garden?” 



14 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Not yet. Maybe you’ll show it to me, after lunch. 
Senator Kirby must have plenty of jack, to run a place like 
this . . ” 

“No. It’s his wife’s. Cigarette money. I don’t mean 
that the way it sounds,” Miss Vickery added, with a wide 
smile. “Tobacco money. Millions. Poor woman.” 

“Most people wouldn’t figure it a hardship exactly.” 

“I don’t mean her money. She isn’t well. Neurotic. 
Mentally upset. Dr. Badouine is treating her. You met 
him . . . ?” 

“Yes. Handsome young physician . . . went out to look 
at the hyacinths with a snappy blonde named Mrs. Con¬ 
over. I’ve got them straight. What’s Mrs. Kirby upset 
about?” 

“Her daughter, Jean. That tall, smouldering-eyed girl 
in black. She wants to marry Count de Zara. Mother 
objects ...” 

“Why ? Anything wrong with de Zara ? I’d figure him 
a professional strong man . . . magnificent, from the neck 
down . . .” 

“Nothing wrong that I know of. They say his title’s 
quite genuine. Maybe she doesn’t like the man . . .” 

“Do you?” 

“I’ve only met him twice . . . and I mustn’t gossip. 
But I don’t care much for foreigners . . . especially the 
fortune-hunting kind. However, I may be wrong. He 
seems quite sincere.” 

Steve glanced about the room. 

“It’s always a bit confusing,” he said, “meeting a lot of 
strangers. I’ve got Mrs. Kirby ticked off. And her 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


15 


daughter Jean. And Dr. Badouine and Mrs. Conover. 
And Count de Zara. Judge Tyson is the plump little 
lawyer who looks like Santa Claus. And the bony old 
buzzard by the fireplace is Senator Kirby . . . with his 
legal man of all work, Luke Reed. That’s the bunch, as 
far as I’ve gone . . .” 

“The slim, smooth-faced man in the doorway,” Ann 
Vickery said, “talking to Jean Kirby and the Count, is an 
actor, named Lawrence Dane. Doing local stock.” 

“Friend of Mrs. Kirby?” 

“I believe so. But I’m practically a stranger here. Let’s 
talk about something else.” 

“All right.” Steve grinned. “How about me? I’m no 
modest violet. I suppose Mrs. Kirby told you what I do 
for a living?” 

“She said you wrote plays.” 

“Right. At least, that’s my delusion. I get quite a kick 
out of it. Looking for material. What would you think of 
this house, as a setting for a play? Your blue hydrangeas 
are a perfect touch. A mystery play. I hear there’s already 
been one murder, in this room.” 

“Fair enough, for a setting. But why a murder? An¬ 
other murder, I mean. There would have to be a mo¬ 
tive . . 

“What about Mrs. Kirby ? Simply dripping with price¬ 
less jewels. I suppose they’re real.” 

“Oh, yes. She told me the other day there was no point 
in having jewelry if you couldn’t wear it. No doubt her 
things are insured. That rope of pearls she has on, I 
understand, is worth a quarter of a million . . .” 



i6 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“And you talk about motive! What more do you want? 
As for the murderer, take me, for instance. Poor but am¬ 
bitious playwright. More or less broke. The lady, having 
seen my first opus, is good enough to ask me to lunch. 
Doesn’t know me from the town pump. I may be a des¬ 
perate criminal ...” 

“You don’t look it,” Miss Vickery grinned. 

“The big shots never do.” 

“I see. And where do I figure, in this drama?” 

“Oh . . . you’re my little pal. ‘Moll,’ I believe, is the 
proper underworld term . . . the mot juste. Sent down 
here by me to look the ground over in advance . . . other¬ 
wise ‘case the job.’ You’ve just informed me how much 
the lady’s pearls are worth. When I whistle under your 
bedroom window . . . ‘give you the office’ . . . you trip 
downstairs in your pyjamas, let me in, and the deed is done. 
After that, Paris ... or would you prefer the Argen¬ 
tine?” 

“I don’t care for the role ” Ann Vickery said. “My in¬ 
stincts are naturally moral. Can’t you think of something 
more elevating . . . ?” 

“No. I like this plot. Strong love interest. That always 
makes a big hit, with the public. Hero and his girl-friend 
in the shadow of the guillotine! Noose, to be exact; they 
still hang ’em, down here. We’d beat the rap, in the last 
act, of course, by pinning the crime on the butler. That’s 
always safe.” He glanced up as one of the liveried servants 
bent over to announce that luncheon was served. 

“Hope he didn’t hear you,” Ann Vickery said, laugh¬ 
ing. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


17 


“If he did,” Steve grinned, “your reputation is shot; 
tomorrow you’ll probably find yourself in the hoosegow. 
Well . . . that’s what comes of associating with play¬ 
wrights. A disreputable bunch! Where is this luncheon 
party? I’m hungry enough to eat a dish of spinach.” 





Ann Vickery climbed out of the tremendous tub and 
swirled a bath towel about her waist like a sarong. 

Undoubtedly the Malays had the right idea, she 
thought; a one-piece costume made life simpler. Still, 
carrying that argument to its logical conclusion, why 
wear anything at all? At least there would be an agree¬ 
able saving in laundry bills. 

She grinned at her smooth, shapely body in the mir¬ 
ror. Some people, she thought, might go in for nudism 
without causing the public to laugh itself to death. There 
were others whose cascading stomachs and overhanging 
hips made the idea seem almost obscene. 

Why did people have mirror-lined bathrooms anyway ? 
Narcissism, that was the technical term for it. A form of 
vanity, no doubt. Although what pleasure anyone could 
get out of that sort of thing was beyond her. 

She put on her pyjamas, went to the window. Time to 
go to bed, time at least, for poor but honest working girls. 
She grinned again, at that, surveying her surroundings. 
The marble bathtub was almost big enough to swim in. 
Silver plumbing. Gold-plated doorknobs. Just another 
way of showing off, of course, by people with more 

18 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


19 


money than taste. Like children, with toys. Not the 
senator, perhaps; politics was his passion. Still, that 
might be a way of showing off, too. 

The garden, however, was perfect. Age, and a good 
landscape artist had seen to that. She could just make out 
the dark box hedge, with the antique stone bench at 
the end of it, the blue lily-pond. Blue in the daytime, 
only a flash of silver, now, under the moon. She would 
have enjoyed sitting there, at this moment, with some¬ 
one she liked very much. Someone with loose, russet- 
leather hair like Stephen Ransom’s. And eyes that knew 
how to laugh. Life was so damnably serious most of the 
time. Fighting for money. Not money for gold-plated 
doorknobs. For living. The kind of living a man and 
woman with taste would want. 

She frowned at the absurd bed, which suggested a 
stage setting for Madame Du Barry. Silk sheets. Why 
should anyone want to sleep between silk when they 
could get good honest linen? Mrs. Kirby must have put 
her in the royal suite. 

She had just kicked off her mules when she heard the 
voice. It came, she thought, from the morning room 
below. A woman’s voice, high, excited. Ann could dis¬ 
tinguish only three or four words. “I know!” Or was it 
“No . . . no!” Followed by “The nail!” or “That nail!” 
The exclamation, while meaningless to her, was some¬ 
how alarming. 

For a moment she stood at the bedside, her body tense. 
The voice had almost certainly been that of her hostess, 
Mrs. Kirby, and there had been both surprise and fear 




20 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


in it. She waited, expecting something more to follow 
that excited and meaningless cry. 

What followed was the radio, suddenly turned on. An 
adenoidal tenor, gargling a cheap love-song. There was 
a radio in the room below, Ann knew, but this seemed 
scarcely the sort of program that Mrs. Kirby would se¬ 
lect. Still, it was difficult to tell, with women in their 
forties. Lonely, sex-starved women; if nothing else, her 
three-days stay in the house had told her that the senator 
and his wife were not exactly lovebirds. 

Above the whining of the tenor Ann heard another 
sound. The deep, rich chime of a clock. She counted the 
strokes. Twelve. Strange. She had not supposed it so 
late; her watch, lying on the bed table, still marked a 
quarter before the hour. The clock, of course, might 
well be wrong; she had noticed the tall mahogany case, 
the brass dial, the day before, and thought it a museum 
piece. These antiques were not always to be relied upon 
she knew. 

For a time she waited, sitting on the bed, uncertain 
whether to put out the lights, go to sleep, or undertake 
some sort of an investigation. True, there seemed noth¬ 
ing in particular to investigate, nothing, at least, that con¬ 
cerned her. In any case, there were plenty of servants in 
the house, although at this hour they would doubtless be 
in bed. She turned the light switch, darkening the room 
except for the small glow of a reading lamp. Recollec¬ 
tions of Mr. Stephen Ransom’s comedy-drama, with her¬ 
self as the hard-boiled heroine, drove her, smiling, to the 
window. According to the scenario he should shortly be 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


21 


whistling beneath, waiting for her to come downstairs 
and let him in. As she glanced toward the garden, she 
thought she saw a furtive dark figure moving against the 
deeper black of the box trees. 

Ann Vickery was not the sort of woman to be easily 
panicked. Life, although it had not left her hard, had 
made her efficient, like a well-tuned airplane motor, an 
adding machine. What she had heard and seen did not 
add up right. The high, strained voice, the sticky croon¬ 
ing of the radio, the clock, striking incorrectly, the figure 
silhouetted against the boxwood hedge, no one of these 
things, taken separately, seemed adequate cause for alarm; 
Mrs. Kirby might well have been talking to some late 
caller in the room below: she had difficulty in sleeping, 
stayed up until all hours. Her voice was normally rather 
high, shrill; a nervous voice. Old clocks were often out 
of order. Tastes, in radio programs, were apt to differ. 
As for the dark figure—perhaps it was customary, in this 
unfamiliar household, for visitors to come and go by way 
of the garden. Each circumstance, taken by itself, ad¬ 
mitted of reasonable explanation; together they made up 
a total that Ann Vickery’s logical mind rejected. She 
slipped her bare feet into the mules, pulled a dressing 
gown about her shoulders, went into the hall. 

The suite which had been given her was in the east 
wing of the house; the part of it that had once been the 
original tavern. Ann thought of that, as she tiptoed along 
the dimly lit corridor; thought of the century-old murder 
of which Stephen Ransom had told her. Perhaps the 
jealous husband had crept down this very hall, as she was 




22 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


creeping now, to surprise his wife and her lover in the 
room below. 

Each wing had its own separate staircase. The broad, 
polished steps creaked a little as Ann felt her way down 
them, holding on to the smooth mahogany rail. Some¬ 
where below, toward the main part of the house a lamp 
was burning, but the faint light from it did little more 
than intensify the shadows. She reached the newel post, 
stopped. Except for the sound of the radio the house was 
singularly still. The program had changed. Someone 
was playing a guitar, now, singing a Spanish ditty; it 
sounded less offensive than the buttery love-song had 
done. 

At her right, the door of the morning room was closed. 
Ann went up to it, knocked. Not loudly; she felt like an 
intruder, wondered, when she met Mrs. Kirby, just what 
she should say. 

There was no response to her faint knocking. Probably 
the noise of the radio had drowned it out. Acting on 
impulse, she turned the knob of the door, pushed it wide. 

The room was brilliantly illuminated. Facing her a 
French window stood open. The flagstone tiles of the 
terrace outside, under the amber light, were like squares 
of copper. To her right, in the doorway of the solarium, 
the cluster of hydrangea blossoms showed now only a 
splotch of muddy indigo: they needed sunshine, for their 
vivid blue. To the left, toward the fireplace, was a writing 
desk; Chippendale, an old piece. 

Mrs. Kirby was sitting at it. She sat very still. Her 
head, bent forward, rested on a square of tan blotting 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


23 


paper. A tall man stood over her, gazing down at the 
back of her neck. Without being told, Ann knew that 
Mrs. Kirby was dead. 

The man turned to face her. She had realized that 
it was Stephen Ransom, even before his shoulders moved. 
During luncheon she had liked his quick, whimsical 
smile, the sparkle of laughter in his eyes. There was no 
laughter in them now, nor was he smiling. 

“Miss Vickery!” he exclaimed. “Mrs. Kirby has been 
murdered I’m afraid. You’d better rouse the family. 
Have them call a doctor, the police!” 

He spoke softly, trying to control his excitement, but 
Ann saw that his hands were trembling. 




Ill 


Steve Ransom hadn’t cared much for the play—a local 
stock-company tryouts. The construction was poor, he 
thought. Too much running in and out of doors. Un¬ 
explained entrances and exits. It wasn’t so easy, he knew 
from experience, to get one’s characters logically on and 
off stage. Just dragging them around by the back of the 
neck was amateurish. Still, the dialogue had been modern, 
snappy; the piece might get a run on Broadway. 

He knew one of the authors slightly, thought of look¬ 
ing him up. Then he decided not to. It was always a 
strain, to talk to another writer about his work. Frank¬ 
ness might be construed as envy. Plain goosegrease, 
smeared on, he left for back-slapping hypocrites. And 
silence, while safe, was often the most deadly criticism 
of all. 

There was Lawrence Dane, of course. The tall, good- 
looking actor he had met at Mrs. Kirby’s luncheon. Un¬ 
fortunately, the authors had seen fit to kill him off for 
their second act climax; by now he was probably miles 
away, enjoying his after-theatre supper. 

Thoughts of supper reminded Steve that he was hun¬ 
gry himself. He got into his car, drove down Pennsyl- 

24 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


25 


vania Avenue. Since he had elected to eat alone, any 
place would do. He went into an almost empty tiled 
restaurant, ordered scrambled eggs and bacon, coffee. 

The girl who waited on him seemed ill. Her cheeks 
were flushed, under heavy, too brilliant eyes. Steve 
noticed, as she scrawled the items on a pad that her 
fingers were quivering. 

“Feel badly, sister?” he asked. 

“Uh—uh. Flu, I guess.” The girl pressed her side, 
coughing. “That be all?” 

“Yes.” Steve nodded. “What time do you get off?” 

“Twelve. It won’t be long now.” 

Steve glanced down at his wrist watch. Eleven twenty. 
He took a dollar bill from his pocket, pressed it into the 
girl’s clammy fingers. 

“Here,” he said. “Settle the damage and keep the 
change for carfare. Then go on home. Tell ’em you’re 
not fit for work. If you don’t you’re likely to be laid up 
with pneumonia. Now beat it.” 

The waitress went away, whispering thanks. Steve 
devoured his eggs, thinking of Mrs. Kirby. They had 
talked, very briefly, after luncheon, about his new play; 
the demands of her other guests had prevented a longer 
conversation. He had not come to Washington with any 
idea of interesting her financially in a stage production, 
but she had asked him about costs, made him write the 
figures down on a sheet of paper. The woman, he 
thought, was eager for something to occupy her mind 
and energies, something which would provide excite¬ 
ment, afford her an outlet for her emotions. He grinned, 





2 6 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


at that; she’d get excitement enough, backing a show. 
And why not put some of her over-large income into a 
theatrical venture? It was a better gamble than many 
stocks, a more interesting one than roulette, or horse¬ 
racing—you got more fun for your money. Sig Krantz 
had liked his new comedy immensely, but com¬ 
plained about production costs. Too many sets, too big a 
cast, he thought. Being what he was, Sig considered one 
set and six people the ideal American drama, unless he 
could cut the speaking parts down to four or less. With 
Mrs. Kirby’s backing, the play could be put on properly 
and the excitement of it might lift the poor woman out of 
her mental doldrums. She had certainly seemed ill. 
Perhaps it was difficult, being the wife of a prominent 
senator. Perhaps politics, its constant demands, left Kirby 
little time for his wife. Perhaps there was something 
else—vaguely in his mind Steve remembered some neb¬ 
ulous gossip involving the Senator and a certain unknown 
woman ... a widow. Was it Mrs. Conover, he won¬ 
dered ? 

He finished supper, went out to his car. The hour’s 
drive home would be pleasant enough on this mild spring 
evening, with clear roads and a moon. He thought of 
the girl he had met, the attractive interior decorator . . . 
what was her name . . . Vickery . . . Ann Vickery. 
Good-looking, and intelligent. Something smart, stream¬ 
lined about her. That was New York, of course ... a 
New York training. He wondered if she had been born 
there . . . thought the chances against it. Most New 
Yorkers hailed from the sticks; from her manner of 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


27 


speaking he figured her as down east . . . not too far 
down. Rhode Island . . . Connecticut. An interesting 
girl. Good mind . . . swell figure . . . he’d like to see 
her again. 

The Kirby’s place was swell, too ... just the sort of 
place he’d like to own himself, if he had plenty of money. 
Rambling old house, every line of it suggesting large, 
leisurely comfort. Like a well-tailored suit, of costly ma¬ 
terial but comfortably worn. Even a little baggy at the 
knees perhaps. The old-fashioned garden would be at¬ 
tractive, he thought, by moonlight. Like a stage setting. 
Not much out of his way, to drive by and look at it. 

The view of the house from the avenue was disap¬ 
pointing because of the trees at its front. The side street, 
however, not much more than a lane at the east of the 
garden, gave him what he wanted. He stopped the car 
alongside a field-stone wall; spring had covered it with 
a tracery of Virginia creeper, deep bronze now, although 
by day it would be a tender green. 

Over the wall, the east wing of the house was sur¬ 
prisingly close. A room on the ground floor showed a 
row of long windows, amber oblongs cut in the sombre 
brickwork. Beyond a wide terrace, the double row of 
boxwood trees showed a deeper, more vivid black than 
the surrounding shadows. There was no movement in 
the still picture, no sound, except the dim drone of a radio 
from inside the lighted room. The same long, low room, 
Steve reflected, in which he had been during the early 
afternoon—the room in which the innkeeper’s too-af- 
fectionate wife had met her untimely fate. 



28 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Smiling, Steve reconstructed the scene. A similar spring 
evening, no doubt: such affairs blossomed with the 
crocuses. The agitated lover, doing a hasty nose-dive 
through one of the windows. Not French windows, then; 
those were probably a later embellishment. An escape 
through the shrubbery. 

Steve paused, frowning. One of the tall windows had 
been pushed open. A figure in black ... a long black 
coat, or cloak . . . flitted across the terrace like a hasty 
shadow and instantly melted away, became one with all 
the other vague shadows that crowded the garden. 

For a moment or two Steve sat still, peering uncertainly 
into the gloom. Flad the figure he glimpsed been that 
of a man or a woman? Fie could not tell, although the 
swirl of the long, dark coat had seemed feminine to him, 
rather than masculine, the suggestion of a hat more like 
a toque than any headgear a man would be likely to 
wear. 

Now that the window was open he could distinguish 
the sound of the radio much more clearly, could almost 
hear the words of the song. Common sense told him 
there was no reason why anyone, either a man or a 
woman, should not have left the house, gone into the 
garden, and yet, why emerge with such suspicious rapid¬ 
ity? Why make such a swift and dramatic exit, leaving 
only a well-lit room, a blaring radio behind? There 
should, he felt, be something more. Some evidence of 
movement behind the amber shades of those tall win¬ 
dows. If a visitor had left, the one so suddenly opened 
should be closed again. At approximately midnight, even 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


29 


the most trusting of householders did not leave their 
windows open to a rude and unscrupulous world. 

As a dramatist, a writer of plays, Steve Ransom had 
made a study of exits. The one he had just witnessed 
suggested very strongly a hurried flight . . . the villain 
making his escape from a vacant stage, leaving tragedy 
behind. If so, it was too late, now, for pursuit of that 
fleeing figure. But not too late to investigate the reason 
for his, or her, sudden departure. Even at the risk of being 
himself taken for a midnight burglar. 

Laughing a little at his imagined fears, Steve Ransom 
jumped from his car, vaulted the low stone wall. The 
grass of the lawn was smooth and soft with the softness 
of spring; his feet made no sound on it. Beyond was 
a flagstone terrace, on which the tall windows faced. 

Because of their draping curtains it was impossible to 
see through them. Hurrying a little, Steve reached the 
one that stood open, stepped into the room. 



IV 


Ever afterward, Ann Vickery remembered the horror 
of that first moment. The dead woman, at the desk, the 
long, bright room, too bright, now, with its flood of 
light, its gay chintz, the ordeal she knew to be facing 
her—all seemed suddenly and equally horrible. Except, 
perhaps, the tall figure of Steve Ransom. Even in that 
tragic moment she was aware of his good looks, the care¬ 
less smartness of his grey flannel suit, the grave distress 
in his eyes, the way in which his red-brown hair grew 
down on his forehead in an attractive peak. Somehow, 
these inconsiderable details seemed all she had to hold on 
to, in a world that had begun to reel. 

“I think the family . . . the others ... are out,” she 
said unsteadily. “The senator spoke of a political meeting, 
at dinner; thought he would be late. Jean Kirby is with 
her fiance. The servants are in bed.” She met Steve’s 
grave look with a question. “How did you get in?” 

“The window was open.” He glanced behind him, one 
eyebrow quizzically raised. Ann remembered their 
mock mystery-drama then; according to its scenario she 
was to have come down and opened it. 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


3 i 


“You might call Dr. Badouine,” she went on. “He’s a 
psycho-analyst, but I don’t know anyone else. And 
if ... if the poor woman is dead, I suppose it doesn’t 
make much difference. There’s the phone.” She pointed 
to a table against the wall. 

“Yes.” Steve picked up the telephone directory, began 
to search for a number. The radio, its Spanish tinkling 
ended, burst into full orchestra; a gust of dance music 
. . . jazz. Ann moved to stop it. 

“You won’t be able to hear—” she said. 

“Don’t!” Steve warned. He held the small, bright 
telephone instrument between fingers wrapped in a 
handkerchief. “Don’t touch anything. Also, the radio 
may help to check the time.” He spoke into the trans¬ 
mitter. 

The time ? Ann glanced at the tall clock. Five minutes 
to twelve. That agreed with her watch now. Yet she 
had heard it chime the hour, ten minutes before. Some¬ 
body must have moved the hands back. She stared at 
Steve Ransom, wondering. 

“Dr. Badouine is expected at any minute,” he said. 
“I’ve left word for him to come at once.” He called an¬ 
other number . . . presently spoke again. “This is Sen¬ 
ator Kirby’s residence. Halfway House. I’m reporting a 
murder. Mrs. Kirby. I don’t know. A friend. Neither 
of them. Yes ... a Miss Vickery; she’s visiting here. 
Yes . . . Dr. Badouine. They’re asleep. All right . . . 
we won’t. I understand.” 

“Well?” Ann watched him put down the telephone. 

“We’re to stay here. In this room. Not to touch any- 



32 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


thing. Not to call the servants. Just wait, until the 
police arrive.” He glanced toward the desk. 

“What makes you so certain Mrs. Kirby has been . . . 
murdered?” Ann asked, pulling the dressing gown tighter 
about her waist. 

Steve went to the body. 

“That,” he said, indicating a point on the dead woman’s 
neck. 

A small, red spot, like a puncture, was barely visible 
near the base of her skull. But for the fact that the sur¬ 
rounding hair was thin, and ash blonde, the wound 
would scarcely have been noticed, at least not by a casual 
observer; there was no blood. 

“Oh!” Ann murmured, shuddering. 

“Looks as if somebody had driven a sharp, round instru¬ 
ment into the base of her brain.” 

“Horrible.” Ann felt a little sick, fought against it. 

“Like the Spanish garrote,” Steve went on, palpably 
trying to divert her with conversation. “Official Castilian 
equivalent of the electric chair. An iron collar with a 
spike in it; you turn a wheel and the spike is forced 
through the spinal cord. Quick, and not painful, they 
say; shouldn’t care to try it myself.” 

Ann was still staring, white-lipped, at the small round 
wound. 

“It might have been a nail!” she whispered. 

“Nail ?” What gave you that idea ? Rather inconvenient 
sort of a weapon; you’d need to carry a hammer around 
as well. The only nail murder I ever heard of is in the 
Bible. Lady named Jael got rid of a gent called Sisera 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


33 


by driving a spike into his dome; she used a mallet. Per¬ 
fect, for a little jingle. There was a young lady named 
Jael, who bumped off a guy with a nail . . .” 

“Don’t,” Ann said slowly. “I know you’re trying to 
take my mind off this thing, but there’s something I 
must tell you. Before I came downstairs I heard Mrs. 
Kirby cry out, as though she had been frightened. She 
said, ‘The nail!’ or ‘That nail!’ I’m not quite sure which.” 

Steve stared at her, puzzled. 

“That’s queer!” he muttered. “Darned queer! Accord¬ 
ing to the Bible story, it’s a female weapon. And just 
before I came in here I saw somebody leave by the win¬ 
dow ... in a hurry. Couldn’t be sure, then, whether it 
was a man or a woman. Now I am. Look at that.” He 
pointed to one of Mrs. Kirby’s hands, lying clenched on 
the desk-top. 

Ann bent over. Between the dead woman’s fingers 
were several long strands of dark hair. 

“A woman’s, of course,” she whispered. “Her pearls 
are gone, too!” 

“Pearls?” Steve glanced up, incredulous. “You don’t 
mean to tell me she had the damned things on all eve- 
mngr 

“She certainly did have when I saw her last, about 
ten o’clock. She was sitting here reading. And waiting 
for somebody . . .” 

“How do you know she was?” 

“I heard her tell Edward, the butler, so. Said she was 
expecting a caller, very late . . . that he needn’t wait 


/ 






34 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“H . . . m.” Steve, staring down at the blue and tan 
Indian rug beneath the desk, bent over, frowning. “The 
string must have been broken in the struggle, then, be¬ 
cause here’s one of the pearls on the floor. Better not 
touch it. Or those scraps of paper; I promised the police 
not to mess up any clues. There certainly seems to be 
plenty of them; I suppose you’ve noticed the wall safe. 
Over the mantelpiece.” He crossed the room. 

Ann followed him. The ancient fireplace had been 
fitted with an elaborate Caen-stone mantel. In the chim¬ 
ney-breast above, a Della Robbia plaque, a brilliant bit of 
enamelled terra cotta apparently fixed in the plaster, had 
been swung aside on invisible hinges, revealing the pol¬ 
ished steel dial of a safe beneath. 

“An ordinary thief wouldn’t have known how to turn 
that thing back,” Steve said. “Wouldn’t have known 
there was a safe behind it. Somebody’s been burning 
papers, too; you can see a few scorched pieces, at the edge 
of that smouldering backlog. Somebody who was in a 
hurry, or they’d have done a better job. How long was it, 
Miss Vickery, after you heard Mrs. Kirby cry out, before 
you came downstairs?” 

“Six or eight minutes, I suppose. And she didn’t ex¬ 
actly cry out. Not, I mean, in the way anyone would call 
for help. First I heard her say about the nail. Then the 
radio went on. . . .” 

“Immediately?” 

“Yes. A sickly love song called ‘Nobody, Honey, But 
You.’ I thought it a queer selection, for a woman like 
Mrs. Kirby. Then the clock struck . . 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


35 


“You mean this clock. Struck what?” 

“Twelve.” 

“But it wasn’t twelve—isn’t yet, for that matter.” 

“I know. I looked at my watch. I thought the clock 
was wrong.” 

“It’s O.K. now by my time.” 

“And mine. Of course the striking mechanism could 
be out of order. Or the hands may have been turned 
forward until it struck, then put back again. We ought 
to know in a few minutes, because in that case it will 
strike one, next.” Ann suddenly became conscious of her 
bare ankles, her mules. “I suppose I should have come 
down sooner but I didn’t suspect ... at first. And I’d 
been taking a bath.” 

“Funny mixup,” Steve said. “Too many clues. If you 
ask me, I’d say some of them had been planted.” 

“Planted ?” 

“Sure. To make things more difficult, for the police. 
Why should an ordinary jewel thief be burning letters 
. . . papers? And those strands of hair in Mrs. Kirby’s 
fingers. Maybe they were put there, to throw suspicion 
on somebody.” 

“On me, maybe.” Ann laughed, not happily. “Well, 
the color is about right.” 

“Don’t forget you found me . . . bending over the 
body.” Steve waved to a couch. “Suppose we sit down 
and talk this thing over.” 

“Just where we were sitting this afternoon,” Ann said, 
falling back against the pillows, “when I told you how 
much Mrs. Kirby’s pearls were worth!” 




3^ 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“And I planned, with your help,” Steve added gloomily, 
“a swell little robbery and murder! Ha! Just about the 
way it actually occurred!” He jerked his long body up¬ 
right against the back of the sofa. “Do you realize, little 
one, that we may be in a rather tough spot ? All my fault, 
too. Well, pal,” he put out his hand, “it looks like a case 
for co-operation.” 

Ann gripped his lean, hard lingers. 

“Moll, I believe, is the proper term,” she said gravely. 
“And I suppose you mean we’ve got to hang together.” 

“Thank God,” Steve exclaimed, with sudden enthusi¬ 
asm, “for a woman with a sense of humor! Oh, gallows, 
where is thy sting?” 

He held her hand firmly . . . was still holding it when 
the police car roared into the driveway. 




V 


Inspector John Duveen, Assistant Superintendent in 
command of the Detective Bureau, Washington police, 
pressed the doorbell at Halfway House, frowning. Con¬ 
trary to his usual habit, he was in a state of indecision. 

On the one hand he felt a little sorry that the Major 
had been called out of town and was thus prevented from 
taking active charge of the case. The importance of the 
persons involved promised to make it an affair of unusual 
difficulties. 

Not that the Inspector objected to difficulties, in the 
ordinary sense of the word. As an able and conscientious 
officer he rather welcomed them. But he knew, from 
experience, that when great wealth and political position 
were both involved, obstacles were sometimes thrown 
up against which even the most able and conscientious 
worker might readily bark his shins, or, as the Inspector 
mentally put it, mixing metaphors a little, burn his fingers. 
Senator Kirby was a man of great influence, not likely to 
forgive any mistakes. 

On the other hand, the fact that the Chief had been 
called away left the Inspector with that joy which comes 


37 


38 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


to every man, when required to carry on in the absence 
of his superior. He was not looking for an alibi; all he 
wanted was a fair fight, with no favors given, or asked, 
especially asked. But he would have to be careful of 
pitfalls. 

The door of the house was not at once opened, in 
spite of his continuous ringing. Ann Vickery and Steve 
Ransom, bolt upright on the sofa in the morning room, 
heard the distant bell but made no effort to answer it; 
their orders had been to stay where they were, until the 
police arrived. It was left to Edward, the butler, hurrying 
downstairs in slippers, bathrobe and a very bad temper, 
to open the front door. 

The three men in citizens’ clothes who stood beyond 
it were three men to him and nothing more. Elis frown 
suggested that to ring a gentleman’s doorbell at midnight 
was something not done, in polite circles. 

“Well?” he demanded, holding the door slightly ajar. 

“Senator Kirby in?” The Inspector’s voice was snappy. 

“I think not.” Edward’s manner still remained on the 
lofty side. 

“Don’t you know?” 

“I haven’t heard his car return.” 

“How about Mrs. Kirby?” Duveen was studying his 
man. 

“Mrs. Kirby was in the morning room when I last 
saw her. About eleven o’clock. Now I imagine she has 
retired for the night.” 

The Inspector had prolonged the conversation for his 
own purposes. Seeing the door begin to swing in- 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


39 


hospitably toward him he pushed it open, almost up¬ 
setting Edward in the process. 

“Police!” he said grimly. “Show us the morning 
room! Come along, boys!” 

The butler, in a daze, tottered down the passage 
toward the east wing, muttering. 

“Here, sir,” he said, opening a door. The first thing 
he saw was Mrs. Kirby, sitting at the desk and the grim 
stillness of her figure appalled him. “Madam . . . I . . . 
Oh, my God!” he muttered, and fell, babbling, against 
the doorframe. 

The Inspector went past him, glanced about the room. 
In it he saw the body, the wall safe, the open French 
window, the two figures standing beside the couch. 
Perhaps even other, more minute details were recorded 
automatically by his subconscious mind. 

“All right, boys!” he said. “Hurry up with your pic¬ 
tures, Carey; the Doc’ll be along any minute now.” He 
swung to Ann and Steve. “I’m Inspector Duveen, De¬ 
tective Bureau. Who are you?” 

“This lady is Miss Vickery,” Steve said. “A guest in 
the house. I’m Stephen Ransom. The one who called 
the police.” 

“What are you doing here? Guest too?” 

“No. I happened to be passing the house, saw someone 

run out of that window, thought I’d better investi- 
>> 

gate . . . 

“So you came in. What did you find?” 

“Mrs. Kirby. Sitting there. Dead.” 

“How’d you know she was dead?” 




40 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I felt her pulse.” 

“Did, eh? What else?” 

“Nothing. Then Miss Vickery joined me.” 

“Why?” The Inspector turned to Ann. 

“I heard noises, ran downstairs, found Mr. Ransom 
here. Asked him to telephone.” 

“How come you didn’t do it yourself? Or call some of 
the family? Instead of leaving it to a strange man?” 

“I knew everyone was out. And Mr. Ransom isn’t a 
strange man; I’d met him before.” 

“Oh! You had?” The Inspector’s eyes narrowed a 
little. “Where?” 

“Here. At luncheon. Today.” 

“I see.” Inspector Duveen paused for a moment; he 
was trying to reconcile this statement with Steve’s al¬ 
leged quite accidental arrival on the scene. “What noises 
did you hear, miss?” 

“I heard the radio. And the clock strike twelve. But 
principally I heard Mrs. Kirby call out something about 
a nail.” 

“A nail? I don’t get you.” The Inspector’s eyes were 
questioning. 

“She said, in a loud voice, ‘The nail!’ or ‘That nail!’ 
I’m not sure which. I don’t know what she meant.” 

“Was there anybody with her?” 

“I suppose so; she wouldn’t have been talking to her¬ 
self. And I thought I saw someone moving in the 
shadows, but I have no idea who it was.” 

“Why not your friend here?” Duveen glanced at Steve. 
“You found him in the room when you came down.” 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


4i 


Ann had no answer for that, attempted none. It was 
Edward who spoke. Weakly, because of the horror still 
upon him. 

“Perhaps I should say, sir,” he mumbled, “that just 
before eleven Mrs. Kirby told me she was expecting a 
caller, sir, but as it might be late she’d let them in her¬ 
self, and I could go on up . . .” 

“Let them in? What do you mean by them?” 

“That was the word Mrs. Kirby used, sir. I got the . . . 
ah . . . impression that she did not wish to disclose her 
visitor’s name.” 

“Then you don’t know whether it was a man or a 
woman?” 

“Oh, yes, begging your pardon, I do, sir. It was a 
woman. My room on the third floor happens to com¬ 
mand an excellent view of the entrance way, sir. And 
as I chanced to be looking out, and the moon was quite 
bright . . .” 

“I see. You were spying. Well . . . who was it? Do 
you know?” 

“I do not, sir. Just a woman. Rather a tall woman, I 
thought, although that may have been because she wore 
a long, dark coat. I could not see her face . . .” 

“The person I saw run out of that window,” Steve 
said, “also wore a long, dark coat. I thought it was a 
woman, too.” 

“When was that? What time?” the Inspector asked. 

“A few minutes before twelve. Five or six.” 

“This young lady,” Duveen snapped, “says she heard 
the clock strike twelve before she came downstairs.” 





42 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I did,” Ann agreed, “but it struck wrong. Fifteen 
minutes wrong. That was another reason I came.” 

“Seems to be O.K. now.” Duveen glanced at the clock. 

“The hands must have been turned forward, then back 
again. I’m sure of that, because at midnight, just before 
you came, it struck one. Didn’t it?” She looked at Steve. 

“Correct.” He nodded. 

“Then, miss, if it first struck soon after you heard Mrs. 
Kirby speak, she must have been killed at about a quarter 
to twelve. Is that right?” 

“Yes. You can check the time because at the same 
moment I heard someone singing a song called ‘Nobody, 
Honey, But You,’ over the radio; we haven’t touched it 
since; they signed off at twelve o’clock.” 

“H . . . m.” The inspector nodded. “That ought to fix 
the time of the murder pretty close.” He looked at Steve. 
“Easy enough, young fellow, for you to have monkeyed 
with the clock, before this lady came downstairs.” 

“Right. Only I didn’t. If I had, I’d have turned the 
hands back, not forward. Tried to show the murder took 
place before I got here, instead of afterwards. The only 
thing I did, beside call the police, was telephone Dr. 
Badouine.” 

“Badouine? Who’s he?” 

“Mrs. Kirby’s physician. One of them, at least. The 
only one we knew. A psychiatrist. Shouldn’t have known 
that only we met him here today, at lunch. They told 
me at his house he was expected any minute and would 
come right along. I knew a doctor couldn’t help but 
it seemed the proper thing to get one. Left word Mrs. 
Kirby had met with an accident.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


43 


The Inspector frowned, pulling at his clipped red 
moustache. 

“Suppose you tell me, young fellow,” he asked, “how 
you happened to be hanging around the house tonight 
just when the murder occurred?” 

“It’s simple enough. I live in Baltimore. Drove over 
in my car today for Mrs. Kirby’s luncheon. Later, as 
long as I was in town, I thought I’d see a show. A new 
one, a tryout, I wanted to look over. Write a little my¬ 
self—plays. Well, after the play I had something to eat, 
then decided to drive by here on my way home and take 
a look at the garden by moonlight.” 

“This house isn’t on the way to Baltimore.” 

“It’s not much out. And I wasn’t in a hurry.” 

“Where were you at a quarter to twelve?” 

“I don’t know, exactly. Couldn’t have been much be¬ 
fore that when I left the restaurant.” 

“What restaurant?” 

“I don’t know that, either. A beanery on Pennsylvania 
Avenue; I didn’t notice the name. I can find it, I think. 
There was a waitress . . .” Steve hesitated, stopped. 

“You mean she’d remember when you paid your check 
and left?” 

“No. As a matter of fact the girl was pretty sick. Had 
a rotten cold. So I gave her the money in advance, told 
her to go on home.” 

“Then you can’t prove when you left the restaurant.” 

“No.” Steve agreed, thoroughly uncomfortable. “Not 
unless somebody else remembers me.” 

“And you might have been hanging around here any 
time, after the theatre let out, say at eleven.” 




44 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


t 

“That’s right. Only I wasn’t.” 

The butler, still shivering beside the doorframe, stepped 
forward, looking at Steve with pale, troubled eyes. 

“There is something I should perhaps say, sir,” he 
muttered. “Although it may not be important.” 

“Well?” The Inspector wheeled about. 

“I’ve just remembered that one of the second men, 
name of Parsons, was talking, after luncheon, in my 
pantry. You know how the servants in a house often do 
say a word or two now and then, sir, about the guests. 
Well, Parsons told me he heard a gentleman . . . this 
gentleman, I think it was,” he blinked at Steve, “talking 
to Miss Vickery about Mrs. Kirby’s pearls.” 

“Pearls?” the Inspector demanded. 

“Yes, sir. Her necklace of pink pearls. She was wear¬ 
ing it this evening, but just at present . . .” he nodded 
significantly toward the body. 

One of the plainclothes men came forward, cupping 
something in his hand. 

“Just found this, Chief, on the floor near the desk.” 

The Inspector looked at the pearl; his body stiffened. 

“Go on,” he said to Edward. 

“Yes, sir.” The butler licked dry licks. “According to 
Parsons, sir, he heard the lady tell the gentleman . . . 
they were sitting just here on the couch, sir . . . that the 
string was worth a quarter of a million. And after that 
the gentleman told the lady she was to come downstairs 
and open the window for him, and when the deed was 
done they were to run away to ... to the Argentine, I 
think Parsons said. I did not attach much importance 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


45 


to the matter at the time, sir, thinking they were probably 
joking, but . . 

The room was significantly still. Steve Ransom 
laughed, over the heavy silence. 

“That’s true,” he said. “I was amusing Miss Vickery 
by outlining an entirely mythical mystery play.” 

Inspector Duveen, judging from his expression, failed 
to find the matter amusing. He glanced through the 
open French window, noticed with approval the uni¬ 
formed officer on the terrace outside. The man who had 
exhibited the pearl drew hfrn toward the desk, pointed 
to the dark strands of hair caught between the dead 
woman’s fingers. For a moment they whispered together; 
Ann Vickery saw, from their glances, that they were 
discussing her own shining, blue-black locks. 

“Get this Parsons,” Duveen snapped, nodding to Ed¬ 
ward. 

“Look here!” Steve took a step forward, towering 
over the Inspector a good six inches. “This is all hooey. 
I’ve told you the truth. So has Miss Vickery. We don’t 
know anything about Mrs. Kirby’s murder. Or the 
pearls. If you want to search me . . .” 

“You’ll be searched, don’t worry!” The Inspector’s 
voice was glacial. He turned to examine some scraps of 
paper one of his men had gathered from the floor. “Just 
now I’d like you to write down a few words for me.” He 
produced a notebook, a fountain pen. “Here! Use this 
blank page.” 

“What shall I write?” Steve asked belligerently. “And 
why?” 




46 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Never mind why. Put down, ‘It will cost you’ . . . 
then some figures ... say twenty-five thousand dollars. 
That’s all.” 

Steve bent over a corner of the desk, scribbling. The 
request seemed meaningless to him. The Inspector, how¬ 
ever, apparently thought otherwise; he took the notebook 
Steve handed him, held it alongside the scrap of paper 
in his fingers. For a moment he stood comparing the 
two, then laid both on the desk. 

“Did you write that?” His lean forefinger indicated 
some words scrawled upon the torn bit of paper. 

Steve stared, astounded. In his own handwriting, 
were the identical words, “It will cost you,” followed by a 
dollar mark and some partly torn figures. Then remem¬ 
brance came, swift, if not exactly reassuring. 

“Yes,” he said. “When I was in this room, just after 
luncheon today. Mrs. Kirby thought of putting money 
in a play of mine. She asked me to give her some figures. 
I wrote them down. She must have left the sheet here, 
on the desk.” 

“Didn’t tear it up, did she? Burn it in the fireplace? 
All but a couple of scraps ? You seem to have explanations 
for everything, young fellow. Some not so good. Maybe 
that letter was a demand for money. Maybe you burned 
it yourself, to cover your tracks. Looks like we’d have 
to take you down to Headquarters.” 

Footsteps, along the hallway, drew his attention. A 
small, neat gentleman, wearing spats and a cutaway coat 
came into the room, carrying a black leather satchel. 
Two officers in uniform followed him. 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


47 


“Hello . . . hello . . . hello!” he murmured, bending 
over the body. “This is bad.” 

“It is, Doc,” the Inspector agreed. “Very.” 

“Mrs. Kirby! Well . . . well! Poor woman! I knew 
her slightly. H . . . m. Peculiar wound. Made by some 
round, smooth, sharp-pointed instrument.” 

“Such as a nail?” Duveen inquired softly. 

“A nail?” The Medical Examiner glanced up. “Well 
. . . perhaps ... a large wire nail. Although I should 
have expected something a little more tapering. Not 
quite so straight up and down if you get what I mean.” 
He turned the dead woman’s head to one side, peering 
at her throat. “H . . . m! . . . bruises! She must have 
been choked, first. But not to death . . . the face shows 
too little suffusion. Then, after she had been rendered 
unconscious, the nail or other weapon was used to finish 
the job . . . couldn’t have been accomplished otherwise. 
Have you found it?” 

The Inspector shook his head; he was not listening. 
His eyes were fixed on something which lay on the tan 
desk-blotter, hidden, up to now, by Mrs. Kirby’s head. A 
photograph ... a snapshot. He picked it up, very care¬ 
fully, by the edges. The picture showed a stretch of beach. 
A Continental beach, to judge from the character of the 
buildings in the background. Nearer, two persons, a man 
and a woman, stood smiling extravagantly into each 
other’s eyes, holding each other’s hands. The woman, 
well past her early youth, wore a brief, very chic bathing 
suit; it gave her ageing figure an artificially youthful 
quality that was also somewhat pathetic. The man, of 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


powerful physique, wore trunks, and to Inspector Du- 
veen’s eyes was a stranger. Across the bottom of the 
photograph, written in a feminine hand were two names 
“Nick” and “Bee,” with between them, like a small, con¬ 
necting chain, the words “Toujours — Toujours — Tou- 
jours!” 

The Inspector sighed, irritably. Just when the case 
seemed all cleared up, one of those unpleasant obstacles 
had arisen which he had visualized while waiting at the 
door. Even in that absurd costume ... it seemed absurd, 
now, in the presence of death ... he recognized the 
woman in the picture readily enough; a downward glance 
was all that was needed to show him her cold, lifeless 
face. And while he might be in doubt concerning the 
man with her, he did know . . . here the Inspector gave 
a small, harsh laugh . . . that it was not Senator Kirby! 

The Medical Examiner straightened his well-tailored 
shoulders, dusted his slender fingers. 

“I can tell you more about the weapon after we’ve had 
a post-mortem,” he said. “As I have just remarked, the 
woman was choked to insensibility, probably right where 
she is sitting now, and while unconscious, a sharp in¬ 
strument was driven into the base of her brain. Which 
indicates, I should say, although it is more in your 
province than mine, that robbery was not the motive.” 

“Why?” the Inspector asked. “A valuable pearl neck¬ 
lace has been stolen.” 

“That may be.” The doctor’s eyes twinkled shrewdly. 
“But thieves . . . most thieves at least ... do not com¬ 
mit unnecessary murders. If the man who broke in 
here . . .” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


49 


“It may have been a woman,” the Inspector inter¬ 
rupted. 

“Indeed! You surprise me. But still not impossible. 
If the woman who broke in here . . .” 

“She didn’t break in; Mrs. Kirby apparently admitted 
her.” 

“Really? That is even more surprising. But the fact 
remains that any thief, having once rendered his victim 
unconscious, could have walked off with the loot in 
comparative safety. Why stop to commit a perfectly 
needless murder?” 

“If Mrs. Kirby knew who the thief was, she may have 
been killed to prevent her from telling.” 

“Possible, but unlikely. Especially such a clean, cold¬ 
blooded murder as this. It took coolness, Duveen, to 
drive that weapon, whatever it was, into her spine with 
such nice precision. However, that’s your job, not mine. 
I suppose you want to know when death took place. 
Within the past hour, I should say, well within it. That 
is all I can tell you, pending a more thorough examina¬ 
tion.” As he turned to leave, he almost ran into a hurry¬ 
ing figure, suddenly framed in the doorway. A slender, 
dark man of unusual distinction and charm. 

“I . . . Good God! Dr. Ames! What’s wrong?” The 
newcomer’s voice broke slightly as he caught sight of the 
body in the chair. 

“Why hello, Dr. Badouine!” The Medical Examiner 
put out his hand. “Didn’t expect to meet you, on a 
murder case.” 

“Murder! They . . . they told me Mrs. Kirby had met 
with an accident. I came at once!” 




50 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Nothing you can do, I’m afraid.” Dr. Ames, being 
of the old school, did not think very highly of psycho¬ 
analysts. 

Dr. Badouine stood aside as the two uniformed men 
lifted the body to a couch, covered it with a sheet. His 
sensitive face showed real grief; he seemed deeply 
shocked by Mrs. Kirby’s death. 

“If you had told me suicide,” he said. 

“Hardly! Strangulation! And a wound at the base of 
the brain! My dear fellow!” The Medical Examiner 
chuckled. 

“I meant, Dr. Ames, that knowing Mrs. Kirby’s mental 
condition, I should not have been surprised to learn that 
she had killed herself.” 

Inspector Duveen pricked up his ears at that. 

“Any idea who might have done it, doctor?” he asked. 
“I’m in charge here. Detective Bureau . . .” 

“No.” Dr. Badouine shook his head. “No particular 
person. I may say, however, without violating profes¬ 
sional ethics, that Mrs. Kirby has been greatly distressed 
of late over her daughter’s infatuation for a certain 
foreigner—a titled foreigner—to whom she has become 
engaged. I am not gossiping; Mrs. Kirby’s opposition 
. . . her very bitter opposition . . . was well known to 
all her friends.” 

“H . . . m! Her daughter, eh?” The Inspector saw 
another disagreeable difficulty appearing. Mrs. Kirby 
. . . the Senator . . . and now, the daughter. Pitfalls? 
Worse! The presence of this photograph under the 
murdered woman’s head was dynamite—no less. Capable 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


5i 


of causing all sorts of domestic explosions—even murder. 
He must step cautiously, now . . . must look beyond a 
pearl necklace for a solution of the mystery. 

“Are there no clues?” Dr. Badouine asked, his voice 
shaking. 

The Inspector plucked a sheet of monogrammed note- 
paper from the rack upon the desk, folded it about one 
half of the snapshot. This, while it hid the figure of the 
woman completely, left that of the man fully exposed to 
view. Holding the picture between this protective cover¬ 
ing, Duveen thrust it under Dr. Badouine’s eyes. 

“Know who that is?” he asked. 

The doctor stared down, nodding. 

“Why, yes,” he said quickly. “Of course. It’s the man 
I’ve just spoken of. Miss Jean Kirby’s fiance! Count 
Nicolas de Zara!” 





“So far as murder cases are concerned,” Inspector 
Duveen had frequently been heard to say, “most of them 
have either too many clues or not enough ... a feast 
or a famine. There’s no happy medium.” 

He was thinking just that now, on the heels of Dr. 
Badouine’s identification of the man in the snapshot as 
Count Nicolas de Zara. Thinking, but not saying any¬ 
thing. There was good reason for silence. So far, no one 
but himself had seen the photograph, in its entirety, at 
least. Even the doctor had been shown but half of it . . . 
the man’s half. That the woman in the picture, care¬ 
fully hidden by a folded sheet of paper, was Mrs. Kirby, 
the Inspector decided to keep to himself; his thoughts 
told him that there was nothing medium about this case, 
happy or otherwise. So far as clues were concerned, it 
had suddenly become overburdened with them. 

Until a few moments ago this young fellow Ransom 
and the girl with him, Miss Vickery, had seemed a pretty 
safe bet. Strands of dark hair, the color of hers, in the 
dead woman’s fingers. What looked like a demand for 
money, in the young man’s handwriting, upon a scrap of 
paper found on the floor. A plot to steal Mrs. Kirby’s 


52 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


53 


pearl necklace between them, overheard by one of the 
servants. And now what? A whole series of new and 
entirely different possibilities, brought up by the discovery 
of this photograph! 

What was the picture doing under the murdered 
woman’s head? A snapshot, in a risque bathing suit, 
linking her none too pleasantly with a man not her hus¬ 
band. A man, in fact, engaged to marry her daughter. 
“Toujours — Toujours — Toujours!” The Inspector had 
learned enough French with the A.E.F. to under¬ 
stand the tender significance of that. Had the Senator, 
discovering the photograph, gone into a tailspin and de¬ 
cided to do away with a faithless wife? Or had Mrs. 
Kirby confronted de Zara with the picture, threatened 
to show it to her daughter in a last desperate effort to 
break off the marriage? Coupled, perhaps, with threats 
to disinherit the girl as well ? Plenty of motive there for 
murder, to say nothing of the fact that Mrs. Kirby’s 
death would be greatly to de Zara’s advantage, since 
Jean, as an only child, would inherit the bulk of her 
mother’s money! God, what a mess! The Inspector 
groaned inwardly. 

Other equally unpleasant possibilities suggested them¬ 
selves. Mrs. Kirby might have shown the snapshot to her 
daughter first, hoping in that way to destroy the girl’s 
infatuation for de Zara. Have arranged a midnight 
meeting with her, unknown to the servants. The In¬ 
spector knew from the newspapers that Miss Jean Kirby 
fancied herself a sculptress, spent much of her time at 
a studio downtown. Was she tall, dark? He had seen 



54 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


pictures of her, in rotogravure sections, but did not re¬ 
member. Could a mother and daughter be sufficiently 
jealous of each other to resort to murder? Or was it not 
more reasonable to suppose that de Zara had gone to Mrs. 
Kirby with the picture, attempted to use it as a club with 
which to force her consent to their marriage? A threat 
to show it to the Senator might have brought her to 
terms or, in case she resisted, to her death. 

“Hell!” The Inspector pulled savagely at his mous¬ 
tache. Plenty of clues, all right. Too many. Why, for 
instance, had the wall safe been exposed? Had Mrs. 
Kirby opened it, to take the photograph out . . . closed 
it again? And the documents burned in the fireplace? 
Where did they fit in the picture ? Inspector Duveen sud¬ 
denly remembered rumors he had heard regarding Sen¬ 
ator Kirby’s liking for a certain very attractive widow. 
Could this unknown woman have been Mrs. Kirby’s 
visitor? Perhaps she had in some way obtained pos¬ 
session of the snapshot . . . had tried to use it, to get 
Mrs. Kirby to give her husband a divorce. Was she tall 
and dark? That was an angle he would have to investi¬ 
gate. And whether Mrs. Kirby . . . God forgive him for 
thinking ill of the dead . . . having played around with 
one man, might not also have done the same with an¬ 
other? A man who had somehow got hold of this pic¬ 
ture, was trying to blackmail her? Could she have had 
not one visitor, but two, during the evening ... a 
woman, and a man . . . ? Then there were this Vickery 
girl . . . this fellow Ransom . . . The Inspector wiped 
the sweat from his forehead. Pitfalls, to trap the unwary ? 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


55 


Wide gulfs! Morasses! Opening on every hand! Damn 
such a case! If he didn’t watch his step . . . 

Inspector Duveen did not lack courage. He had left 
two fingers and part of an ear in the Argonne and 
brought back a Congressional medal, but while his trig¬ 
ger finger was still intact it wasn’t likely to be of much use 
in dealing with rich senators, and women—especially 
women. He did not understand them and was sensible 
enough to admit it, which, in a man, is the pinnacle of 
wisdom. He glanced about the room, watched the Med¬ 
ical Examiner go down the hall; no one else had moved 
since Dr. Badouine’s announcement ... his own mental 
excursions had taken less than thirty seconds. 

Without comment, he wrapped the photograph in an¬ 
other sheet of paper to prevent damage to possible finger¬ 
prints, placed it in his pocket. Edward, with Parsons, 
the second man, hung tentatively just outside the door. 
Duveen turned to the butler, trying to keep his voice 
calm. 

“Do you know where Senator Kirby is?” he asked. 

“I he^rd him tell Mrs. Kirby, at dinner, he had a po¬ 
litical meeting.” 

“Miss Kirby?” 

“I can’t say, sir.” Edward shook his head. “Miss Kirby 
has been spending a great deal of time lately at her 
studio.” 

Dr. Badouine, staring with sombre eyes at the couch, 
glanced up. 

“I think I can tell you about Miss Kirby,” he said. 
“Mrs. Conover, a mutual friend, spoke to her at luncheon 



56 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


today about a bridge game this evening; Jean . . . Miss 
Kirby . . . couldn’t make it, because she was dining with 
Count de Zara and going on somewhere, afterwards, she 
said, to dance.” 

Duveen nodded. Another check; he would have to wait 
until the girl showed up, if she did. Meanwhile, he might 
as well question the servant, Parsons. No need to let this 
young fellow Ransom know that the photograph had 
turned suspicion in other directions; after all, the picture 
might not mean as much as he thought. 

“You!” he said, pointing a lone forefinger at the man. 
“Are this lady and gentleman the ones you overheard 
talking about Mrs. Kirby’s pearl necklace?” He nodded 
over his shoulder. 

“Yes, sir.” Parsons sidled into the room; he looked 
like a heavyweight and talked in the piping voice of an 
adolescent schoolboy. “They planned to murder her; I 
heard them say so distinctly. And to blame the crime on 
the butler. Take the rap’ was the expression the gentle¬ 
man used.” 

Steve spoke then. Angrily. He thought the Inspector 
a fool and wanted to say so. 

“Why waste time over that?” he growled. “I’ve told 
you it was just a lot of hooey. If I’d been planning to 
murder anybody you don’t suppose I’d have been fool 
enough to broadcast it, do you ? This young lady is tired 
. . . ought to go to bed! I’m due back in Baltimore! 
Have we got to stand around here all night?” 

“You can sit down if you want to,” the Inspector re¬ 
torted. “Anyway, you won’t be going back to Balti- 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


57 


more. I want you both where I can put my hands on you 
as material witnesses, if nothing else.” 

“Does that mean you’re figuring to lock us up?” 

“I may.” The Inspector considered. “Not the young 
lady; she’ll be safe, here in the house. But you can’t leave 
Washington.” 

“Oh, all right! In that case, I’ll go to a hotel. I’m not 
planning to run out on you. If I’d wanted to do that 
I could have gone long ago; my car’s outside.” 

“With one of my men sitting in it,” the Inspector said 
dryly. “You keep your shirt on, young fellow; I’m boss¬ 
ing this job!” 

Dr. Badouine crossed the room, held out his hand. 

“How do you do, Ransom,” he said. “We met at lunch, 
you remember. Talked about psycho-analysis, in crime 
detection.” 

“Of course,” Steve nodded. “I remember very well.” 

“If you find yourself in any difficulties,” the doctor 
went on, “don’t hesitate to let me know. Mrs. Kirby 
was not only a patient, but a friend; I’ll be glad to do 
anything I can to help bring her murderer to justice.” 
A somewhat ironic smile on his intelligent face, he turned 
to Duveen. “No need to send Mr. Ransom to the lock-up, 
Inspector; he is a writer of standing. I shall be very glad 
to vouch for him.” 

“Thanks, doctor,” Steve said. “Mighty decent of you.” 

“All right, all right!” the Inspector grumbled. “He 
can go to a hotel if he wants to; we’ll see he doesn’t run 
away.” 

“And look me up tomorrow, Mr. Ransom,” Dr. 





58 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Badouine added, moving toward the door. “We’ll have 
a talk. If I can be of no further service here, Inspector, 
I’ll say good night.” 

“Nothing to keep you,” Duveen said indifferently, his 
mind on other matters. 

Dr. Badouine, with a last shocked look at Mrs. Kirby’s 
body, left the room. One of the Inspector’s men came 
up holding a blackened bit of cardboard between his 
fingers. 

“Found this wedged down behind the backlog, Chief,” 
he said. “Flat against the brickwork; that’s why it 
didn’t burn up.” 

The Inspector’s eyes narrowed. Half of a torn cor¬ 
respondence card. In spite of its charred condition a 
few words were faintly legible. Significant words. “Of 
value.” “Danger.” “Talk it over.” The signature at the 
bottom, least burned of all, was “Lawrence Dane.” 

Duveen sighed. Another clue. Instead of welcoming, 
he almost resented it. He knew quite well who Lawrence 
Dane was; the local stock company had an excellent 
press-agent. How he fitted into this complex picture 
puzzle was another matter; it was exasperating, the way 
each new development seemed to upset all the others. 
He spoke to Edward, sharply. 

“Is Mr. Lawrence Dane, the actor, a friend of the 
family?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir. That is, a fairly frequent visitor, sir; I think 
Mrs. Kirby met him in New York; she knew a good many 
stage people.” 

Well, that was that. Another angle to be investigated. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


59 


He gave one of his men some whispered instructions. 
Dane, too, might have got hold of the photograph. 

A rapid click of heels sounded from the corridor; 
Duveen turned as a slim, graceful girl swept into the 
room. For a moment she stood staring about her, wide- 
eyed, then with a tragic cry ran to the couch, fell on her 
knees beside it. 

“Mother . . . Mother!” she sobbed. “He didn’t mean 
it ... he didn’t mean it!” 

Even in that distressing moment the Inspector did not 
fail to notice that the girl was tall, and wore a long, dark 
coat. Her hair, however, was ash-blonde. He touched 
her gently on the shoulder. 

“How did you know about your mother?” he asked. 

The girl looked up, her face wet. 

“Dr. Badouine told me! I ... I just met him at the 
door!” 

The Inspector nodded; he had children of his own, 
and a mother. But while his voice was kind, it was also 
firm. 

“Would you mind telling me, Miss Kirby,” he asked, 
“how you spent the evening?” 

The girl rose, her lips quivering. 

“You want to question me?” she demanded. “Now?” 

“Yes, Miss Kirby. It may help us to find out who 
murdered your mother.” 

“Murdered ... !” Jean Kirby’s mobile face became a 
rigid mask; her eyes, a moment before soft with tears 
glittered like green jewels. “Dr. Badouine didn’t tell 
me . . . that!” 




6 o 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Yes, Miss Kirby, I’m sorry to say. Now if you will 
kindly answer me . . 

“Very well!” The girl straightened her shoulders, her 
chin went up. “I dined with Nick . . . Count de Zara 
. . . my fiance. Danced afterwards. At eleven I took 
him back to his apartment, left him there; he had an 
appointment. After that, as it was early and I didn’t feel 
like going to bed, I drove around.” 

“Around?” the Inspector queried softly. 

“Yes. Nowhere in particular. Out toward Laurel . . .” 

“You didn’t stop?” 

“No.” 

“Why did you come here? I’m told you’ve been sleep¬ 
ing at your studio.” 

“I ... I came because I’d made up my mind to 
see . . . Mother.” The girl’s eyes flicked toward the 
sheeted figure on the couch. “We’d had a quarrel. A 
frightful quarrel. About . . . Nick. She didn’t want me 
to marry him. Said I could only do it over her dead body! 
Nick said that was all right with him . . . that she 
didn’t dare to stop me. He was very angry, lost his 
temper. Afterwards he felt sorry, said he didn’t mean it. 
I drove around, thinking. Then I decided to come here 
and tell her so. It seems I arrived too late.” 

“You say Count de Zara had an appointment. At his 
studio. Who with?” 

“I don’t know. He didn’t tell me. Some business 
matter.” 

The Inspector rubbed the faint stubble of beard 
along his jaw. De Zara left at his apartment at eleven. 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


61 


The girl just “driving around.” Not so good. Tall . . . 
a long black coat ... a black toque. The butler, from 
his third story window, had not seen the woman’s face. 
But the strands of hair in Mrs. Kirby’s fingers were not 
blonde. 

“I’d like to have Count de Zara’s address,” he said. 

Jean Kirby snatched a card from her purse, wrote some¬ 
thing on it; her fingers were shaking. 

“Here! It’s the same as mine! I mean I have my studio 
in the same building! Now go, please. All of you! I 
want to be alone with . . . with ...” In spite of her 
rigid control the girl was close to the breaking point. 

“But . . . that’s impossible, Miss Kirby.” Inspector 
Duveen tried to be kind. “We have work to do here. 
And the . . . the body must be sent away for . . . for 
further examination. Also, I am waiting to see your 
father. If you happen to know where he is . . .” 

The girl’s head went up. Some new, not pleasant 
thought had apparently crossed her mind. She turned 
toward the door. 

“I don’t!” she said. “Thank God!” A moment later 
the patter of her quick running footsteps sounded from 
the stairway. 

The Inspector looked at Edward. 

“You were very fond of Mrs. Kirby, weren’t you?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, sir, very.” The wizened old man seemed close 
to tears; his chin, covered with a soft grey rime, wob¬ 
bled uncertainly. “She was very good to me, like a 
friend, for almost eighteen years.” 




62 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Then I suppose you’d like to see her murderer pun¬ 
ished?” 

“I would indeed, sir. I am a peaceable man, but I think, 
begging your pardon, sir, I should be glad to place the 
rope about his neck.” 

“His neck?” The Inspector frowned. “Then you think 
it was a man?” 

“No, sir. Not even after hearing Parsons’ story about 
this gentleman here.” The butler glanced fleetingly at 
Steve. “I used the word ‘his’ in a manner of speaking, 
sir. I think Mrs. Kirby was killed by the woman I saw 
come in.” 

“Any idea who it was?” Duveen asked swiftly, like 
a cat, pouncing. 

“Yes, sir. As I’ve told you, I could not see her face, 
but there was something familiar about her . . . her 
general outline, if you know what I mean. Her way of 
walking, sir.” 

“Ah!” The Inspector felt that he had struck pay 
dirt at last. “Let’s have it!” 

“I thought, sir, it might have been Georgette.” 

“Georgette?” In his surprise and disappointment .he 
Inspector sputtered; he had hoped for a very different 
answer. Still another suspect, another angle! “Who the 
hell . . . ?” 

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Kirby’s maid. The one she brought 
back, two years ago, from France.” 

France! Snapshots! Continental beaches! “Toujours — 
Toujours — Toujours!” The Inspector’s hands waved in 
dizzy circles. 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


63 


“Get her here!” he roared. 

“Sorry, sir,” Edward’s chin was wobbling more than 
ever, “but she left, a month ago. Or was discharged. 
I never rightly knew which. Although,” he added as 
an afterthought, “we, meaning the servants, sir, were 
all very glad to see her go. A snake in the grass, sir, 
if ever I met one.” 

“What color was her hair?” the inspector interrupted 
fiercely. 

“Red, sir! Very coarse and red.” 

“Humph!” Duveen stood silent, thinking. He was 
thinking of Senator Kirby. Servants, maids, were some¬ 
times bought, used as tools. But the woman’s hair was 
wrong. He asked Edward another question. “Mrs. 
Kirby, I’m told, had been greatly worried, of late. 
Upset. What was she worried about?” 

The butler stood very still. There was dignity in 
his pose. His rheumy eyes showed a sudden pale fire. 

“It is not my place, sir . . .” 

“Skip it! This is murder, man, not a ladies’ tea! 
I know she was worried about her daughter, and this 
Spig! I just heard that! What else? Anybody been 
quarrelling with her? Threatening to kill her? Serv¬ 
ants always get wise to such things. I’m looking to you 
for help! Well?” 

The butler considered, gravely. 

“Perhaps, sir,” he muttered, “now that Mrs. Kirby 
is dead, it is my duty to speak. I make no accusations, 
sir. But I think the thing that worried Mrs. Kirby 
most of all . . . even more than her daughter, sir, was the 





6 4 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


way in which Senator Kirby had been trying to force her 
to give him a divorce! When she refused, even after he 
sent his lawyer here, sir . . . they . . . Mrs. Kirby and 
her husband . . . had a fearful quarrel; you could hear 
them on the third floor!” 

“Is that so?” The Inspector nodded. Husbands rarely 
insisted on divorces unless there was another woman 
involved. “Now look here. You told me a while ago 
Senator Kirby was due at a political meeting. You didn’t 
say it as if you believed it. Well, come again! And 
come clean, this time! Where is he? I’m not accusing 
the Senator of anything, understand. But I’ve got to get 
hold of him quick! So if you know ... ?” 

Inspector Duveen was a bit excited. The footsteps in the 
hall were curiously soft. Not until a voice interrupted 
him did he realize that someone was standing in the 
doorway. 

It was a round, sonorous voice, which even in this 
sombre moment seemed unconsciously directed toward 
a microphone. Rumor said of Senator Kirby that never, 
even in the midst of heated debate, did he lose his temper. 
He was keeping it now, although with difficulty. 

“You would be wiser, I think,” he said frowning, “to 
address any such questions to me personally.” For a 
moment his gaze passed beyond the Inspector, rested 
enigmatically upon the sheeted figure on the couch. 
“Your men have told me what has occurred.” 

Duveen flushed. He had been doing his duty as he 
saw it, and the contempt in the Senator’s voice angered 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


65 


him. After all, being in Congress didn’t make a man 
God ... he accepted the challenge, knowing the danger 
of doing so; he’d expected that, from the start. 

“Very well!” he said coldly. “Where did you spend 
the evening, Senator Kirby?” 

The Senator’s big-framed figure, rude, in spite of his 
well-cut evening clothes, stirred slightly; he measured 
the Inspector with scornful eyes. 

“Where I spent the evening is my personal and private 
affair,” he said, biting the words off savagely. “And 
since you have no legal right to ask me such a question, 
I decline, on the same grounds, to answer it! Your com¬ 
manding officer, Major Bliss, who happens to be a 
friend of mine, will be glad I am sure to instruct you 
regarding the powers of the police in such matters; he 
would be the last person to countenance such bulldozing 
methods!” 

Inspector Duveen’s face turned bright crimson. His 
fingers . . . the ones he had left, crooked nervously. 

“I hadn’t any idea of bulldozing anybody, sir,” he 
muttered. “I know you don’t have to answer my ques¬ 
tions, if you don’t want to. I’m trying to clear up the 
brutal murder of your wife.” 

“Unless you suspect me of committing it, my where¬ 
abouts during the evening have nothing to do with 
the matter!” 

“Only this, sir. By eliminating those who have 
alibis . . .” 

“Nonsense! You’re not supposed to pry into my pri- 





66 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


vate affairs and I don’t propose to let you do it! When, 
and if, I am accused of anything will be time enough to 
talk about alibis! You men of the police take entirely 
too much on yourselves; this is not Russia! Nor do I 
think under the circumstances,” he glanced again at the 
couch, “that I care to discuss the matter any further just 
now. Get on with your inquiry, if you are making one; 
there are plenty of profitable avenues you might pursue. 
If I can be of any legitimate help in your investigations, 
you will find me in my study.” For a long moment he 
stood beside the couch staring down at the sheeted 
figure which lay there, but with what emotions those 
in the room could not tell, since his back was toward 
them, his face hidden. Then he stalked heavily down 
the hall. 

“Tough baby!” one of the plainclothes men muttered 
under his breath. “If he hasn’t got something on his 
conscience, after that blast, I’m the King of Abyssinia 
and should buy a red parasol!” 

The Inspector frowned; his face was purple with an¬ 
ger. 

“Pipe down,” he said sharply, “and see about getting 
de Zara and that actor, Dane, out here. I want to talk 
to them, pronto! Have Carey and Abramson dig them 
up. You, young woman,” he wheeled swiftly on Ann 
Vickery, “go to bed! It’s getting late, and you’ll have a 
lot of explaining to do tomorrow! Hunter,” his trigger 
finger pointed out Steve Ransom, “tell Ryan, he’s in this 
man’s car, to take him to a hotel, see he stays there! 
And make sure, first, he hasn’t got any pearls up his 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


67 


sleeve. Before you go, young fellow, write down your 
Baltimore address.” 

Steve turned to Ann Vickery, took her hand. 

“Good night,” he whispered. “This looks like cur¬ 
tains, for the first act. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, about 
the second. In spite of hell and high water, you know, 
the play always has to go on. Sorry I got you into it, 
but that can’t be helped now.” With a rather rueful grin 
he went to the Chippendale desk at which Mrs. Kirby’s 
body had been discovered, sat down to write out his 
address. 

There was monogrammed paper in a small rack; he 
drew out a sheet of it, looked about for a pen. At one 
side of the desk stood a square malachite base with a 
metal cup on top of it, from which a slender penholder 
projected at a rakish angle. 

Steve reached forward—checked his fingers in mid¬ 
air. The shining chromium shaft of the holder was slim 
as a surgeon’s lancet. Held in anyone’s hand, with the 
pen-point covered, it could readily be mistaken for a 
long wire nail! 

He turned to the others, curiously watching him. 

“I may be wrong, Inspector,” he said quietly, “but I 
rather think here’s your weapon!” 




VII 


The morning was warm, with the softness of spring 
in it, and Steve Ransom yawned sleepily, thinking that 
Washington hotels had comfortable beds. His watch 
showed him it was after nine o’clock. 

He read the newspapers over breakfast in his room, 
while waiting for a bell-hop to bring back a clean shirt 
and some necessary toilet articles. Mrs. Kirby’s mur¬ 
der had made the front page, with banners, but only as 
part of a jewel robbery; Inspector Duveen was playing 
his hand close to the chest. The most valuable card in it, 
the snapshot photograph, still remained an ace in the 
hole. Once let the news-hawks get wind of that, and 
there would be a veritable deluge of scandal. 

Steve, not having seen the picture himself, understood 
nothing of the Inspector’s responsibility. He knew only 
that Jean Kirby’s fiance, Count Nicolas de Zara, was a 
figure in it. Had he visualized a woman in the photo¬ 
graph, she would not by any stretch of his imagination 
have been the girl’s mother. Hence he had thought 
Duveen’s questioning of Senator Kirby rather bull¬ 
headed; de Zara, under the circumstances, seemed the 
most logical suspect. 


68 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


69 


Lucky, he thought, smiling over his coffee, that the 
discovery of the picture left Miss Vickery and himself 
in the clear ... if it did. Anyway, he hoped so. A 
damned pretty girl—not pretty, exactly—attractive. 
Smartly attractive. A thoroughbred . . . clever, with a 
nice sense of humor. He could go for a girl like that. 
She hadn’t been peevish over the mess he had landed 
her in, with his loose talk about mystery murders. A 
lot of women might have been sore. 

Of course there was no assurance that they were out 
of it, yet. So far as he had seen, the Inspector had not 
made much progress in handling the case . . . hadn’t 
even discovered the weapon until it had been pointed 
out to him. Steve was rather pleased, over that small 
success; his vanity was tickled. Why not do a little more 
work, on his own? That would be better than sitting 
around the hotel. A writer of detective, of mystery, plays 
ought to be able to figure out a solution of a real-life 
drama if he put his mind on it. Helped, perhaps, by that 
psychiatrist . . . what was his name . . . Badouine. An 
intelligent egg . . . brains. He had offered any assistance 
in his power ... it might be a sound idea to call on him 
. . . get his ideas, which should be good, as to a possible 
motive for the crime. 

Certainly, Steve reflected, he owed it to this Vickery 
kid to do anything he could, to get her out of the jam 
in which he had placed her. With his chatter about 
stealing Mrs. Kirby’s pearls. Not so good. He would 
drive out to Halfway House, see her, later. Meanwhile, 
why not do a little work on de Zara? He seemed, after 



70 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


the disclosure regarding the photograph, to be the most 
likely source of information. The Count would remem¬ 
ber meeting him, no doubt, at Mrs. Kirby’s luncheon. 
If he had a telephone . . . Steve consulted the directory, 
found the number, then decided not to call up ... it 
would be better to appear in person, without giving de 
Zara an opportunity to put him off. There was a chance 
that, as a more or less disinterested outsider he might be 
able to secure facts that the Count would not give to 
the police. Whistling he walked around to the garage 
where he had left his car. 

On the way down Pennsylvania Avenue it occurred 
to him that it might be an excellent idea to look up the 
restaurant at which he had eaten supper on leaving the 
theatre the night before. Inspector Duveen would want 
confirmation of his alibi. 

Steve found the place without much difficulty; a 
quick-lunch establishment called “Berger’s.” The pro¬ 
prietor, a dark, shifty little man, had not been on hand 
the previous evening and seemed to regard inquiries 
concerning his staff with suspicion. Steve finally man¬ 
aged to drag from him the information that one of his 
waitresses, Katie Bolek, was home sick. He got her 
telephone number, but when he called up, a tremulous 
voice informed him that the girl was seriously ill, with 
pneumonia, and could see no one. 

Steve got back into his car, no longer whistling; fate, 
it appeared, was working overtime to involve him in Mrs. 
Kirby’s murder. He drove to de Zara’s address, more 
determined than ever to find out, if possible, what motive 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


7i 


lay beneath the tragic affair. As the Medical Examiner 
had said, it could not have been plain robbery. 

The number, on G Street was that of a once handsome 
private residence, now converted into studio apartments. 
Cards in the vestibule showed that Miss Jean Kirby occu¬ 
pied the top floor. A sculptress would need to be under 
the roof, of course, for proper light; de Zara, installed 
on the floor below, evidently did not require special light¬ 
ing for his particular form of art, whatever it was. 

Instead of ringing the vestibule bell, Steve went up 
the stairs, hammered the antique brass knocker on the 
studio door. 

De Zara himself opened it, after a considerable wait. 
He wore an embroidered dressing gown over his massive 
frame, and seemed both sleepy and irritable. 

“Well?” he yawned, blinking reddened eyes. “What 
is it?” 

“I’m Stephen Ransom,” Steve said. “Met you yester¬ 
day, at Mrs. Kirby’s luncheon party. Hope I didn’t get 
you out of bed.” 

“You did,” de Zara replied crossly. “I thought it was 
the police again; they kept me awake until four. That 
is a terrible business, Mrs. Kirby’s murder! The poor 
woman! Shocking, yes? I cannot understand it. Me, 
I know nothing. But you must not stand here. Come 
in, please.” He opened the door wide, closed it. “Sit 
down. We might have a drink, no? I can give you 
vermouth, Martini Rossi. Or brandy.” He snapped up 
the window shades, brought bottles, glasses, from a 
carved Jacobean cupboard. 




72 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Steve glanced about the long room. Almost the entire 
floor of the building. There was a day-bed in it, a 
grand piano, many bits of antique furniture, mostly 
foreign. The walls, however, were what held his curious 
attention; almost every inch of them was covered with 
weapons. Pistols by the hundred, mostly handsome 
duelling sets, beautifully chased, inlaid. Matchlocks, 
wheellocks, flintlocks, superb examples of the gunsmiths’ 
art. Fowling pieces, blunderbusses, long Algerian rifles, 
rapiers and broadswords, German duelling sabres, dag¬ 
gers of European and Oriental make; outside of a 
museum, Steve had never seen such an elaborate dis- 
play. 

De Zara splashed brandy, neat, into two crystal 
goblets. 

“Sante” he muttered, emptying his glass at a gulp, 
a la militaire. “I am fatigued . . . what you say, done, 
all in, finished! You are looking at my collection? It 
is nice, eh? That pair of flintlocks you see near the win¬ 
dow, the ones with the lacquered stocks, were made in 
Japan . . . very old. The sport-gun above is from Vienna 
. . . sixteenth century. Notice the workmanship of the 
barrels. Exquisite. There are three hundred and twenty 
pistols, altogether.” 

“Where did you get them?” Steve asked. 

“Oh, here and there. Many, in Paris ... at the Flea 
Market. You know the Flea Market, yes? Very inter¬ 
esting. That pair of pikes, near the piano, I picked up one 
morning for ten francs! They are from the time of 
Francois Villon. And the little stiletto there, with the 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


73 


jade hilt . . . from Thibet. But you do not drink your 
brandy.” 

Steve raised his glass. He had come to discuss a mur¬ 
der, not weapons for committing one. De Zara, he saw, 
was highly nervous, rattling on at random, to take his 
mind from the tragedy. 

“What did the police ask you?” Steve said. 

“Where I was last night. From eleven o’clock. I 
told them here. Miss Kirby brought me, after our danc¬ 
ing, to keep an engagement. I did not go out again.” 

“Then you’re all right,” Steve said. 

“Maybe so, maybe not. The person I was with must 
also say that. And it is first necessary that I find her.” 

“Her?” Steve asked, surprised. 

“Yes. It was a woman. But not, maybe, as you think. 
She came, for ... for another reason, some business.” 

“I see. And didn’t the police question you about the 
photograph?” 

“Photograph?” De Zara’s eyes suddenly rounded un¬ 
til they looked like two bright copper pennies. “What 
photograph do you mean?” 

“Why, the one that was found under Mrs. Kirby’s 
head. A snapshot of some sort. You were in it.” 

“Me?” The Count rose to his feet like some gigantic 
lay-figure, jerkily, his cheeks livid. “What is this you 
say? I have heard nothing of any photograph.” 

Steve, noticing the man’s agitation, began to wonder 
if he had made a break. Well, too late to remedy it, 
now. 

“I didn’t see the thing myself,” he replied. “Nobody 




74 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


did, except the Inspector. But I know you were in the 
picture somehow, because . . 

“Sangue di Dio! That is impossible!” De Zara hurled 
himself toward a small buhl table that stood against the 
wall. On it was an oblong box, apparently an antique 
jewel casket, made of dull steel, its surface inlaid with 
gold, in arabesque patterns. Snatching a key from a 
silk cord about his neck the Count opened the casket, 
began to paw frantically through the letters, documents 
and photographs which it contained. 

Presently he turned, his huge shoulders sagging. 

“Maledetto!” he groaned, waving his hands. “It is 
gone!” 

“What’s gone?” Steve asked, although he guessed the 
answer. If de Zara was not in earnest, he was doing a 
remarkably fine piece of acting. 

“The photograph! The picture of which you speak! 
There can be but one! On the beach, at Cannes! I 
took it myself, with a string on the camera shutter. Made 
but a single copy . . . for remembrance. Even Mrs. 
Kirby ... !” He stopped, realizing the slip he had 
made. 

Steve knew, then, who else had been in the snap¬ 
shot. The knowledge shocked him, set his mind whirl¬ 
ing in tragic speculations, as it had that of Inspector 
Duveen the night before. Motives for murder . . . 
plenty of them, now . . . 

“Somebody must have stolen it!” de Zara mumbled. 

“Out of that locked box? How? It’s made of steel, 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


75 


“Yes, yes! Damascus steel. Like the fine sword blades. 
It could not be cut open, with any ordinary tools. The 
lock? That might be broken, perhaps . . . but it is not! 
And the key I wear around my neck!” He stood for 
a moment, frowning, then crashed his great fist on the 
table. “That is it! Of course! Now I remember! Not 
long ago . . . ten days . . . two weeks ... I have a 
party. Some friends, to see my collection! In this box I 
keep, among other souvenirs, a letter from the great 
Napoleon to one of my ancestors. From Elba! I take it 
out, to show to Miss Kirby, to my guests. Then came 
drinks . . . something to eat ... I am busy ... I play 
the piano . . . Dio ... I forgot the letter ... do not put 
it back, lock the box, until the others have gone. Some¬ 
time then, that evening, the picture it could have been 
taken out, stolen! One does not watch one’s friends. 
That screen, at the piano, would shut off the view. You 
see?” 

“Yes,” Steve agreed. “Who was here, the night in 
question?” 

De Zara collapsed on a creaking divan, lit a cigarette; 
his fingers shook so that they could scarcely hold the 
match. 

“Not many. An impromptu affair. Miss Kirby, first, 
with the nice old man, Judge Tyson, you have met him. 
And Lawrence Dane, Mrs. Kirby’s friend, he is an 
actor. Then there was Mrs. Conover . . . very charming, 
that one . . . witty; Dr. Badouine brought her. And 
Senator Kirby, with his lawyer, small, brown, like a rat; 
I do not remember his name. Also a woman with them, 




76 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


not young, but very handsome, in the English manner 
. . . big. It may be she was the brown man’s wife; at stu¬ 
dio parties one does not inquire. An actress, too, from the 
stock company, petite, with red hair; a friend of Mr. 
Dane. Counting myself, ten. No more, I think!” Groan¬ 
ing, the Count poured himself another drink of brandy. 
“But maybe Jean . . . Miss Kirby . . . will remember 
better.” 

Steve got up, not entirely convinced. If de Zara wished 
to disclaim knowledge of the photograph, of its presence 
at the scene of the murder, he could not have adopted 
a better plan to shift the responsibility to someone else. 
Clever . . . and yet, it might also be true. There was a 
chance that some of the other guests who had been 
present at the party might know. 

“Look here, de Zara,” he said. “If anybody stole that 
picture, as you claim, and we can find out who it was, 
we’d come pretty close to knowing who killed Mrs. 
Kirby.” 

“That is true. It was stolen, as I tell you. If in anyway 
I can help . . .” 

“No.” Steve shook his head. “You better keep out of 
it. And don’t let anyone know I told you about that 
photograph . . . especially the police. I wasn’t supposed 
to tip their hand.” He took an envelope from his pocket, 
wrote down a list of names. “I’ll sound out these people. 
You keep your mouth shut. The less you say about the 
case right now, the better. By the way, do you happen to 
know Lawrence Dane’s address; I can get it, through the 
theatre, of course, but it will save time . . 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


77 


De Zara opened the table drawer, took out a leather- 
covered notebook. 

“I think so,” he said, riffling the pages. “Yes, here 
it is, Piedmont Hotel, Eighth Street. You will have no 
trouble to find the place.” 

“Thanks.” Steve slipped the envelope into his pocket, 
went over to the wall to examine the small, jade-handled 
dagger to which de Zara had called his attention. Not 
far away hung another weapon: a slim, almost needle¬ 
like stiletto. Its hilt, of yellowed ivory, spoke of great 
age, but it was the slender, round blade that first at¬ 
tracted his notice. A lady’s poniard . . . something to be 
concealed in a swirling lace mantilla . . . the folds of a 
a bright Spanish shawl. The whole thing was not over 
nine inches long. But what chiefly interested Steve at 
the moment was the fact that while the wall behind most 
of the other weapons showed a uniform coating of dust, 
the space where the little stiletto hung did not. On the 
contrary, where its point now lay the faint outlines of a 
hilt were clearly visible, showing that at some recent date 
the weapon had been taken from the wall, and replaced 
in an opposite direction. 

De Zara, following Steve’s gaze, reached for the little 
knife. 

“You like this one, eh?” he chuckled, holding it in his 
powerful hand. “The ladies all do. A sharp sting, not 
so? To carry in the stocking? Many have asked me to 
give it to them, but I do not encourage such dangerous 
ideas.” Still chuckling, he replaced the dagger on its hook, 
this time, Steve noticed, as it had originally hung, so that 



78 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


now the pattern of hilt and blade on the wall were prop¬ 
erly covered. 

Well, that was that. No doubt one of his guests had 
taken the weapon down and replaced it incorrectly. The 
Count’s action in rehanging it could well have been auto¬ 
matic. His finger prints, of course, would be found on the 
ivory hilt. All very correct . . . very understandable, 
but . . . 

Somewhat doubtful in mind Steve shook the Count’s 
great paw, left him. 

De Zara was yawning like a sleepy, good-natured and 
rather stupid giant. 




VIII 


The Piedmont, a small, somewhat run-down, but ap¬ 
parently comfortable family hotel, seemed an ideal place 
for department clerks, visiting relatives of Congressmen, 
old gentlemen with nebulous Government claims, and 
stock-company actors. 

Steve gave his name; as he expected, Mr. Dane was 
not up. 

“Tell him,” he said to the clerk at the desk, “that Mr. 
Stephen Ransom, the playwright, wishes to see him.” 
Most actors, he knew, would rise to that bait; they all 
wanted plays written around them. Mr. Lawrence Dane 
proved no exception; he would see Mr. Ransom at once. 

He had just finished shaving when Steve came into 
the room, and looked freshly pink; his eyes, however, were 
heavy. 

“Hello, hello, old boy!” he exclaimed, extending his 
hand. “Glad to see you! Delighted!” In spite of his stage 
training he did not quite succeed in being convincing. 
“Pardon the looks of this room. And have a highball. 
There’s Scotch on the dresser. White Label. Not bad. I 
never drink anything else. With a little soda to give 
it a fizz, it’s better than champagne . . . cheaper, too, for 


79 


8o 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


a steady diet. Hello!” He picked up the bottle. “A dead 
one! . . . I must have finished that last night when I got 
in. This morning, rather; those infernal police kept me 
up till dawn!” 

“You mean about Mrs. Kirby’s murder, of course,” 
Steve said. 

“Yes. You must have seen it in the papers. Though 
why the police should think I know anything about the 
affair gets me. Terrible business! Such a nice woman! 
Generous! Hospitable!” He opened a closet, set the 
empty bottle on the floor, took a fresh one from the shelf 
above. “Mind ringing for some soda while I open this? 
With ice and a couple of highball glasses? Bit early to 
start but I need a quick one.” 

“Not at all.” Steve picked up the telephone; over it he 
saw Dane fish a pocketknife with a corkscrew attached 
from among a collection of keys, bills and silver coins on 
the dresser. 

Steve watched him open the bottle. The man seemed 
highly nervous, but whether as a result of too much liquor 
and too little sleep, or of the grilling he had received at 
the hands of the police, it was impossible to determine. 

“Mrs. Kirby’s death was a great shock,” Steve said. 
“You know, I found the body.” 

“You found the body?” Dane’s eyes seemed glazing. 
“I didn’t know! How . . . how did that happen?” 

“It’s a long story. Anyway, I drove out there last night, 
walked into the room, found Mrs. Kirby dead. That 
makes me a suspect, too.” 

“You don’t say?” Dane stood holding the bottle of 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


81 


Scotch in his hands; they were trembling. “Sorry, can’t 
wait for that boy.” He tilted three fingers of liquor into 
a water glass, swallowed it with a shudder. “I needed 
that! Hair of the dog, you know. How about you?” 

“No, thanks,” Steve shook his head. “Too early in the 
day. Besides, I’ve got work ahead.” 

“Writing?” Dane seemed glad to switch the conversa¬ 
tion to a more congenial subject. “I’ve always thought 
that a really fine play could be built around the life of 
Samuel Pepys. If I had a part like that . . .” 

“Not writing,” Steve said. “Investigating. That murder. 
Being a suspect, I can’t leave Washington until the matter 
is cleared up. The police haven’t made any progress . . . 
hadn’t, at least, when I left last night. You’ve seen them 
since. Was anything said about a photograph?” 

“Photograph?” Dane asked. 

“Yes. A snapshot of some sort, found under the dead 
woman’s head.” 

“Well, what about it?” The actor’s face remained 
blank. 

“I don’t know yet. But I have an idea the picture may 
have been stolen, perhaps by the murderer, from Count 
de Zara’s apartment during a party he gave there about 
two weeks ago. You were one of those present . . .” 

“Look here!” Dane’s fingers tightened on the whiskey 
bottle, his expression became bleak. “Are you meaning to 
suggest ... ?” 

“Oh, no,” Steve said easily. “Nothing like that. It may 
not have been stolen at all. De Zara claims so. In which 
case, I thought it possible you might have seen one of the 




82 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


other guests snooping around where the picture was kept.” 

Dane shook his head. 

“Sorry, I can’t help you there,” he said coldly. “The 
party got going pretty strong, especially after the drinks 
began to circulate. Almost anyone could have gotten to 
the box without being noticed.” 

Steve forced himself to maintain a poker face. How 
did Dane know where the missing photograph had been 
kept? ‘Gotten to the box!’ No mention had been made 
of any box, until now. Until Dane had himself supplied 
the word! 

“Then you didn’t happen to see anybody near it?” 
Steve went on. 

“I did not!” The actor’s voice, suddenly harsh, held a 
note of finality. “When I go to parties I don’t watch what 
people are doing. Might think I was a detective!” He 
glared at Steve with obvious irritation. 

The arrival of the bell-boy with the soda and glasses 
broke the tension; by the time he had opened it, left the 
room, Dane was once more smiling and affable. 

“I don’t quite get the idea, Mr. Ransom,” he said, mix¬ 
ing the drinks. “What could this picture you’re talking 
about have to do with Mrs. Kirby’s murder?” 

“Well,” Steve replied, considering, “I haven’t seen it 
myself, of course, but granting the photograph was one of 
those things that wouldn’t look so well, in the news¬ 
papers, there’s just a possibility it might have been used 
for blackmail.” 

“I see,” Dane said slowly, his bloodshot eyes narrowing. 
“Well, that’s an idea, at least. You never can tell, about 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


83 


these rich people. Still, it’s nothing in my life. Now we 
can have a regular drink. After that, I’ll grab some break¬ 
fast and chase around to the theatre. You know what 
stock is. A dog’s life. Different play every week . . . 
just one rehearsal after another. Let me sweeten that one 
up for you a little.” He held out the bottle. 

“No, thanks. Sorry. And I mustn’t keep you . . .” 

“That’s all right. And I do wish you’d give the idea 
of a Samuel Pepys play a little consideration. I’m think¬ 
ing about trying to start a permanent stock company here 
in Washington. Talented actors, first class productions, 
put on new plays. You know, like the English actor- 
managers. There ought to be money in it, handled by the 
right man. Don’t you think so?” 

“Possibly,” Steve said, his mind on other things. “Guess 
I’d better be going . . . people to interview . . .” 

“Righto! Come again. Always glad to see you. Why 
not stop around at the theatre some night, after the show, 
and take supper with me ? A play about Pepys, the way 
you could write it . . .” 

“I’ll do that,” Steve said. “Be seeing you.” 

On his way to the elevator, he tried to puzzle out what, 
if anything, Dane knew about the photograph. Of course 
it was possible that he had mentioned a “box” merely be¬ 
cause he saw de Zara take the Napoleon letter from it. 
After all, such an ornamental casket would be the logical 
place for a souvenir photograph to be kept. On the other 
hand, he might very well have made a slip. Have taken 
the picture, for blackmail purposes, even have murdered 
Mrs. Kirby. Since he was not on stage during the last 



8 4 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


act of the play, and thus left the theatre early, there would 
have been ample time for him to reach Halfway House. 

As he turned toward the elevators, Steve glanced up. 
A slim, cold-eyed young man in a bright tan suit was 
tapping him on the shoulder. 

“Just a minute, buddy,” he said. “You’re going along 
with me.” 

“Guess not!” Steve stepped back, his fists swinging. 

“Be good now,” the slim man went on, scowling, “be¬ 
fore I get tough with you! We’re going for a little ride!” 





IX 


The garden at Halfway House was a pleasant picture 
under the warm April sun. Ann Vickery looked at the 
blue lily-pond and thought of Steve Ransom. Even if he 
had not possessed such amusing eyes, such loose, careless 
hair . . . just the sort you might like to rumple . . . she 
would have thought of him anyway, because of the 
murder. 

The clinging horror of it hung over the garden like a 
grey fog, dimming the spring gaiety of pink dogwood, 
making the pale snowballs and bridal wreath seem even 
paler, more ghastly. Mrs. Kirby’s body had gone, for the 
inevitable post-mortem examination . . . Ann shuddered, 
thinking of that . . . but policemen, reporters, Inspector 
Duveen and his men still remained to keep alive the grim 
spirit of tragedy. 

Not that Ann needed any such reminder; she had come 
too close to the core of events, herself. It was only neces¬ 
sary to close her eyes, to see Mrs. Kirby’s wax-like face, 
her dead body bent over the Chippendale desk. In spite 
of the noisy chirping of birds in the garden she could still 
hear her high-pitched voice, calling out something about 

85 


86 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


a “nail.” Had this meant the shining, lancet-like pen¬ 
holder Steve Ransom had discovered ? Ann thought not; 
there were certain features of that matter she wanted very 
much to talk over with Mr. Ransom. With Steve. Rather 
a nice name, Steve, masculine, without being pretentious, 
like, say, Oliver, or Mark. She had once known a man 
named Mark; he had insisted on calling her Cleopatra, 
which was all right, until he tried to make her act the 
part; she hadn’t cared for the name since. Steve, she 
thought, was more homelike, nothing high-hat about it. 
She looked up, to see him coming along the box-lined 
path, the ancient lover’s lane. Well, why not? 

“Hello!” Steve grasped her hand, squeezed it, almost 
too enthusiastically for comfort. “How’s my little sister 
in crime this lovely spring morning?” 

“Still able to sit up and do her bit,” Ann grinned. The 
shadow over the garden had perceptibly lifted. “But I 
thought you said ‘moll’ was the correct underworld term.” 

“Say,” Steve sank on the bench, “don’t remind me of 
that bunch of tripe. A social error, I’m here to state, con¬ 
sidering the trouble it’s landed you in. To say nothing 
of myself. Our friend, the jolly old Inspector, had me 
collared this morning. By one of the plainclothes johnnies 
he’s had tailing me around. I thought the bird was a 
gunman, at first, all set to take me for a ride.” 

“Really?” Ann said. “What did he want?” 

“I don’t know. Haven’t seen Duveen yet; he’s enjoying 
a session with the press boys, I understand. Or else up¬ 
stairs. Anyway, he wasn’t in the morning room when I 
arrived so I came out here, hoping to find you. My lucky 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


87 


day, apparently. How’s everything going ? Any new dope 
on the crime?” 

“If there is,” Ann smiled, “Inspector Duveen hasn’t 
confided it to me. I’ve only seen him once, just for a 
moment; his manner wasn’t friendly. Rather on the 
Simon Legree side, if you get what I mean. However, 
I guess it’s natural; the poor man hasn’t had any sleep. 
I heard Senator Kirby storming at him, long after I went 
up to bed.” 

“He would,” Steve grumbled. “I don’t like that old 
buzzard; he had a guilty look in his eye, last night.” 

“And later on, so Edward tells me,” Ann resumed, 
“they brought Lawrence Dane, the actor, out here, and 
Count de Zara. It must be frightful, for Miss Kirby. 
Losing her mother, and having her fiance mixed up in 
an affair like this as well.” 

“Seen her this morning?” Steve asked. 

“Just for a moment. She’s lying down; I don’t imagine 
the poor girl slept any. Dr. Badouine is with her now. 
And Judge Tyson was here; you met him yesterday, 
didn’t you? He is . . . was . . . Mrs. Kirby’s attorney, 
Edward says; he and the Inspector opened the wall safe 
in the morning room right after breakfast.” 

“Hear what they found in it?” 

“Not officially. But Parsons, the sweet young thing 
who listened in on our play scenario, told Edward they’d 
taken out a small fortune in unregistered bonds, and he 
heard the Judge say Mrs. Kirby never kept anything of 
value in there, ordinarily, and that she’d been down to 
her safe deposit box yesterday mofning, and must have 





88 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


gotten the bonds out then. I don’t know how true this 
is, possibly just servants’ gossip; Parsons strikes me as 
being one of the ear-to-the-keyhole kind you can’t believe. 
But if there were any bonds in the safe, and the murderer 
knew it, that probably accounts for the Della Robbia 
plaque being swung open.” 

“Queer!” Steve muttered. “Darned queer. The way 
this case refuses to hang together. Take those bonds. If 
Mrs. Kirby got them out of her safe deposit box, brought 
them here to the house, it must have been because she’d 
arranged to pay them over to somebody. To de Zara, 
say, as a bribe for not marrying her daughter. Or to that 
mysterious woman caller, who might have been mixed 
up in some way with her husband. With the Senator. Or 
to Lawrence Dane; I have a notion he’s concerned in this, 
somehow. But here’s the hitch. If she brought the bonds 
to pay over to somebody, why didn’t she do it ? Why was 
she murdered before she could open the wall-safe? It 
doesn’t work out. Any more than that crazy thing you 
heard her say about a ‘nail.’ Of course she may have 
meant the penholder, but I don’t see . . 

“No.” Ann shook her head. “It couldn’t have been 
the penholder. I wanted to talk to you about that.” 

“Why couldn’t it? An ideal weapon . . .” 

“Oh, I don’t mean it wasn’t the weapon, I mean it 
wasn’t what she cried out about. In the first place, if 
anyone tried to murder me with a thing like that, I 
wouldn’t be apt to waste time, making comments on the 
nature of the weapon, would I? Hardly. I’d be yelling 
for help. And in the second place, the Medical Examiner 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


89 


distinctly said last night that Mrs. Kirby wasn’t murdered 
until she had first been choked, made unconscious. 
Couldn’t have been; she wouldn’t have held still long 
enough. In which case she probably never saw the 
weapon. Isn’t that sense?” 

“Sense!” Steve exclaimed. “My dear girl, it’s positive 
genius! The next time I write a detective play, I want 
you as a collaborator.” 

“I thought ‘inspiration’ was the correct literary term,” 
Ann said, grinning. “I knew a poet once . . . but that’s 
another story. Anyway, whatever it was that made Mrs. 
Kirby cry out, it couldn’t have been the weapon. You’d 
better put a little thought on that.” 

“I have. A lot. So far, no soap. Except . . . wait a 
minute . . . how about the plaque that hid the wall-safe ? 
The secret spring you’d have to press, to open it. Might be 
the head of a nail, an ornamental nail . . .” 

“We can look,” Ann said. “What have you been doing 
this morning, to help the good cause along?” 

“Well, for one thing, I’ve seen de Zara. He says that 
photograph ... it was a snapshot taken on the beach 
at Cannes, by the way, of himself and Mrs. Kirby . . .” 

“Of himself and Mrs. Kirby!” Ann gasped. “And 
found under the murdered woman’s head! Why then, 
he must have been there, must have killed her!” 

“I don’t know. He swears somebody stole the picture 
from his studio. That’s a pretty fair out, if he can make 
it stick.” 

“Now I understand,” Ann said, “why Jean Kirby looked 
so frightened when I saw her this morning. Not just grief 





90 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


over her mother’s death. Something else. Scared stiff, 
I suppose, about de Zara.” 

“But why? He claims to have a perfectly good alibi. 
An engagement at his studio. Of course Jean won’t be 
very happy when she finds out whom his engagement 
was with; de Zara told me it was a woman . . 

“No,” Ann said. “She won’t. But not just the way 
you mean. Inspector Duveen had the lady in question 
out here this morning, Edward tells me. Who do you 
think she was? Mrs. Kirby’s French maid!” 

“What?” Steve almost fell off the backless stone bench. 
“Then Edward may have been right in saying he recog¬ 
nized her as Mrs. Kirby’s midnight caller.” 

“Possibly. But it seems the woman swears she didn’t 
leave de Zara’s place until after twelve o’clock! And so, 
of course, does the Count. But don’t forget that Edward 
told us last night Georgette is a fiery henna blonde, and 
those hairs in Mrs. Kirby’s fingers didn’t come from any 
red-head, real, or out of a bottle.” 

“Which leaves us,” Steve groaned, “exactly where we 
were before, if not more so. My head is beginning to 
ache . . . and not from being swelled, either. Right now 
it would fit perfectly on a plain, ordinary common or 
garden pin.” He glanced up, saw Dr. Badouine coming 
across the lawn. “There’s the man I want to talk to. 
The secret of this case lies in the motive. That should be 
right up a psycho-analyst’s alley. And he offered, last 
night, to help.” 

The doctor, a cheerful figure in heather-grey tweed, 
came up to them, smiling. Steve rather admired medical 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


9i 


men who did not insist on dressing like professional pall¬ 
bearers. Dr. Badouine held out his hand; despite the 
strain of the previous evening, there were no lines of 
fatigue in his clever, intellectual face. 

“I heard you were here, Mr. Ransom,” he said. “Has 
Inspector Duveen got over the rather fantastic idea that 
you had anything to do with Mrs. Kirby’s death? You 
might point out to him that desperate murderers do not 
usually telephone the police, and then wait around until 
they arrive in order to be arrested.” 

“Thanks. I shall, when I see him. Haven’t, so far. 
Meanwhile I’ve been trying to do a little sleuthing on my 
own.” 

“Any success?” 

“Not much. I’m beginning to think that as a detective 
I’m a pretty good playwright. I did strike a sort of trail, 
though, talking to Count de Zara. It led to an actor, 
Lawrence Dane. But just what it means . . .” 

“Dane?” Dr. Badouine said. “How could he come into 
the matter?” 

“Don’t know, yet. That’s what I’ve got to find out. 
There may be a motive no one has hit on, so far. Some 
curious mental twist. I thought, such things being right 
in your line, maybe you’d be willing to talk it over. How 
are you fixed for time? I don’t mean now; Inspector 
Duveen has me on the carpet. But later, perhaps we could 
discuss it.” 

Dr. Badouine glanced at his watch. 

“I shall be free at two o’clock,” he said gravely. “As 
it happens, Mrs. Kirby was to come to me then. If the 



92 


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hour has not been filled, and I feel sure my secretary 
would have informed me, I shall be glad to see you.” 

“Fine!” Steve said. “I’ll be there, unless Duveen takes 
a notion to put me in the hoosegow, meanwhile. Miss 
Vickery and I are still on his list of suspects, and as it’s 
largely my fault, I’d like to do anything I can.” 

“Of course, of course.” The doctor smiled. “I confess 
that I myself, as I mentioned when talking to you yester¬ 
day, have a sneaking ambition to shine as a sort of mental 
Monsieur Dupin. Most of us feel that way, I suspect. 
It’s the instinct of the chase. Good day. I must get back 
to the office.” He bowed, went quickly up the path. 

“Nice guy!” Steve said. “Brains. I wonder what this 
buxom lad is after?” A stout policeman was approaching 
the bench. 

“Inspector Duveen wants to see you,” he said. 

“Meaning me,” Steve asked, “or the lady?” 

“Both.” 

“Right!” Steve got up. ‘I want to see him. Come along, 
inspiration. I’ll probably need you.” 

Just inside the east wing they met Judge Tyson, talk¬ 
ing in low tones to Senator Kirby’s small, sandy-haired 
lawyer, Luke Reed. The latter glanced up sharply as the 
door opened and with a final, whispered word scurried 
off along the corridor. 

“Terrible affair . . . terrible!” the Judge muttered, 
grasping Steve’s hand. “Who would have thought, when 
we were talking about murders here yesterday, that within 
a few hours history would repeat itself?” 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


93 


“You surprise me,” Steve said. “If I remember cor¬ 
rectly, the murder you told us about then—the one which 
took place when this house was an inn—concerned a 
jealous husband, killing his wife.” 

“Good Heavens!” Judge Tyson’s face, which Steve had 
thought so genial the day before, was suddenly hard as 
granite. “Certainly I meant to suggest no such dreadful 
comparison. You should be more careful, young man, 
in drawing conclusions, especially at a time like this! 
Senator Kirby . . .” 

“No harm meant.” Steve laughed. “Speaking entirely 
in the abstract. Any new developments?” 

“None,” the Judge replied, fiddling with his nose 
glasses, “that I feel at liberty to discuss. Now if you will 
pardon me . . .” He hurried down the corridor after 
Luke Reed. 

“Now what do you suppose that adds up to?” Steve 
whispered, turning to Ann. “I apparently got the old 
boy’s goat. Everybody in this affair seems to have some¬ 
thing on his or her conscience, darling, except us and I’m 
not entirely sure we haven’t, the way things are going 
now.” 

“Well,” Ann whispered back, “as the author of the 
piece, according to Parsons, at least, I fully expect you 
to provide a few novel and dramatic situations. How do 
I know, for instance, that you didn’t murder the unfor¬ 
tunate lady yourself? Before I came downstairs?” 

“You don’t,” Steve grinned, “any more than I know 
you didn’t do the same thing, before I came into the 





94 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


house. It’s fifty-fifty. Anyway, the second act has only 
just begun; you can’t tell what I may have up my sleeve 
for a climax.” 

They met Inspector Duveen coming down the stairs 
beyond the morning room door. 

“Couple of questions,” he said, waving them inside. 
“Did you find me the name of that lunchroom, young 
fellow; I want to check your alibi.” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “It’s Berger’s. The alibi’s shot be¬ 
cause the girl who waited on me—her name’s Katie Bolek 
—is in bed with pneumonia. Can’t see anyone.” 

“H . . . m.” The Inspector sat down at the Chippen¬ 
dale desk, made some notes on a sheet of paper. “That’s 
just too bad.” 

“Why?” Steve frowned. “I didn’t suppose I was really 
under suspicion.” 

“Everybody’s under suspicion,” Duveen replied coldly, 
“until they’re in the clear. What’s the big idea, your going 
to see Count de Zara? And Lawrence Dane?” 

“Why not? Trying to help myself, of course. And 
Miss Vickery. By finding out, if I can, who’s guilty.” 

“Little amateur detective work, eh? Well, you better 
stop it. First thing you know, you’ll have the case all 
messed up. What did de Zara tell you?” 

“For one thing,” Steve said, “he told me about his 
alibi, his engagement with a woman. Mrs. Kirby’s ex¬ 
maid, I hear. He didn’t say what he was seeing her about. 
But if she’s a red-head, that strengthens his story, because 
those black hairs Mrs. Kirby had in her fingers would 
let the woman out.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


95 


The Inspector stared down at the desk-top, frowning; 
he seemed tired, worn. Suddenly he raised his eyes. 

“Those black hairs, young fellow,” he snapped, “don’t 
let anybody out! They’re phony! Dead hairs! Came out 
of a wig!” 

“You . . . you mean,” Steve stammered, “that . . . 
that the woman was disguised?” 

“Sure. What else ? The woman ... or man.” 

“Man?” Steve’s head went up. “Then . . . then it 
could have been Dane?” 

“Dane?” 

“Of course. He’s medium height . . . about right for 
a tall woman. Smooth-faced. Knows all about disguises, 
make-up.” 

Duveen was thinking of the torn, half-burned cor¬ 
respondence card, with Dane’s name on it, which had 
been found in the fireplace. He had already reached cer¬ 
tain conclusions regarding the actor but saw no reason 
for telling Steve Ransom about them. 

“Might be,” he said. “Anything else against him?” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “I’m sure he knows something about 
that photograph.” 

“Photograph?” The Inspector growled, his eyes harden¬ 
ing. He had supposed the secrets of that picture were 
known only to himself. 

“Sure! The one you found under Mrs. Kirby’s head. 
And showed to the doctor, Dr. Badouine, last night. He 
said the man was de Zara . . 

“What does Lawrence Dane know about that picture?” 
Duveen’s voice was not gentle. 





96 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Why ... I can’t tell you, exactly,” Steve went on. 
“De Zara said somebody had stolen it from his apart¬ 
ment, during a party he gave not long ago. Said Dane 
was there . . . one of the guests. So I asked Dane about 
it, and while he swore he knew nothing of any photo¬ 
graph, I think he was lying, because he accidentally men¬ 
tioned the box de Zara kept it in, and I hadn’t said any¬ 
thing about a box.” 

The Inspector stood up. His face was pink with anger. 
Only too well he knew what would happen if knowledge 
of that damning snapshot reached the newspapers. 

“You keep out of this case,” he stormed, “or I’ll lock 
you up where you’ll have to! And I don’t want you 
speaking of that photograph to anyone . . . not anyone, 
get me! I suppose you know who else was in it?” 

“Yes, de Zara told me.” 

“You spill that to Dane?” 

“No. I haven’t mentioned the matter to anybody, ex¬ 
cept Miss Vickery.” 

The Inspector sighed; he had little faith in women, 
when it came to keeping secrets. 

“Then don’t. Or you either, Miss. I mean about Mrs. 
Kirby being the other figure. That’s an order. You 
can see what would happen, if the story ever got 
around!” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “I can. It won’t through me, In¬ 
spector. Or Miss Vickery either. I can promise you.” 

“I give you my word of honor,” Ann added. She rather 
like Inspector Duveen, even if he did make her think of 
Simon Legree. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


97 


He was looking now at a red-bearded man in khaki 
overalls who had come to the door opening from the 
solarium, along with a somewhat younger companion. 
They bent over the vase of hydrangeas. 

“Get a good hold, now, Joe,” the bearded man said. 
“There’s some heft to her.” 

“What’s the idea, boys?” the Inspector inquired, watch¬ 
ing them suspiciously. 

The older man looked up. 

“Taking this plant back to the conservatory,” he re¬ 
plied. 

“Why?” 

“Well!” The bearded man scratched his head. “For 
one thing, because this lady,” he glanced at Ann Vickery, 
“told us to.” 

The Inspector swung around, his suspicion blazing. 

“How come?” he asked harshly. 

“Why,” Ann said, a bit confused by his manner, “I 
suggested to Mrs. Kirby, yesterday, that the hydrangeas 
would make, a nice spot of color, for her luncheon party. 
You see, I . . . I’m an interior decorator. But of course 
hydrangeas don’t bloom, in the open air, in April. They 
have to be forced. Raised under glass. That’s why I 
spoke to the head gardener . . . told him he had better 
see that the plant was taken back.” 

The Inspector nodded. 

“I thought there was something funny about those big 
blue flowers,” he said, going over to the marble vase. 
“Sort of stuck in my craw they weren’t just right for this 
time of year.” For a moment he stood gazing down at 





98 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


the cluster of blossoms, then his hand shot out, its gaunt 
trigger finger pointing. 

“Lift up that tub!” he exclaimed. 

“Tub?” The head gardener rubbed his short carrot-red 
beard, staring. 

“I said tub, didn’t I?” the Inspector repeated. “Lift 
it out, and be quick about it!” 

The hydrangea plant was growing in a circular wooden 
pot, painted green, and equipped with black iron handles. 
It set loosely inside the somewhat larger bowl of the 
marble vase. 

“My orders were,” Duveen went on, “that nothing was 
to be removed from this room until it had first been 
searched. Get me?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The two men, taking the tub by its handles, lifted it 
clear of the vase, set it down on the tiled floor of the 
solarium. Inspector Duveen paid no attention to them; 
he was peering at the curved bottom of the marble bowl. 

Suddenly he reached down, his left hand making a 
swift, circular movement, in the manner of a scoop. 
When he raised it, opened his fingers, a dozen or more 
round, pink globules lay in his palm. 

With a harsh, unpleasant chuckle he extended them 
toward Ann Vickery. 

“Reckon,” he said, “they must be Mrs. Kirby’s pearls!” 




Steve Ransom looked from the pearls in Inspector 
Duveen’s hand to Ann Vickery’s face and saw there the 
same confusion he felt himself, at this astonishing dis¬ 
covery. The girl’s surprise, her sudden fear, might have 
been reflected from his own features. 

He tried desperately to keep his feelings under control. 
To doubt her now, to show even a suggestion of doubt, 
would be fatal, so far as their future relations were con¬ 
cerned. Actually, he felt none; his fear was based on the 
doubts that others might entertain. Inspector Duveen, 
for instance, was making no effort to hide his suspicions, 
although he did not voice them until he had sent the 
gardener and his assistant from the room. 

“You gave orders, miss, did you,” he asked, “to have 
these flowers, this vase, taken back to the conservatory?” 

“Yes,” Ann said. “This morning.” 

“Why?” 

“The plant might be killed if left here.” 

“Strange, your being so worried over a hydrangea 
bush, after all that happened last night! Wouldn’t have 
thought you’d have remembered it, under the circum¬ 
stances.” 


100 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I’m fond of flowers.” Ann’s voice shook a little but 
her eyes met the Inspector’s steadily. 

“Fond enough, maybe,” he went on, “to go out to the 
conservatory, after the plant was carried back there, and 
collect a small fortune in pearls! Gather ’em up at your 
leisure, while you’re supposed to be admiring the pansies 
or something!” The Inspector glowered at the small, 
shining objects in his hand. “Pretty neat, I’ll say.” 

“Rot!” Steve growled. “How could she have lifted 
that heavy tub?” 

“Anything to prevent you from helping her, young 
fellow?” The Inspector bent down, collected the re¬ 
mainder of the pearls from the bottom of the vase, 
dropped them carefully into his pocket. “Kind of funny,” 
he went on, “the way you two keep bobbing up in this 
case.” 

“Nuts!” Steve exclaimed. “Just because . . .” 

“I know ... I know.” Inspector Duveen waved his 
hand wearily. “But it’s a fact, all the same. You just 
happen by, last night, to look at the moonlight or some¬ 
thing. Miss Vickery gives us a lot of chatter about 
‘nails,’ and clocks striking wrong. But the fact remains 
that you were both right here, on the job, and you did 
discuss plans for stealing Mrs. Kirby’s jewelry, her pearls, 
beforehand! Now I find ’em in a vase the young lady 
seems in a mighty big hurry to get off the premises!” 

“Are you by any chance accusing us of Mrs. Kirby’s 
murder?” Steve asked, trying to control his temper. 

“I’m not accusing anybody . . . yet. But it’s just too 
bad you can’t produce an alibi.” 






DESIGN FOR MURDER 


IOI 


“I’ve explained about the waitress.” 

“Sure. You’re good at explaining. Say the girl is sick 
. . . how do I know you didn’t send her home, soon as 
she brought your order, to get rid of her? Leave you 
free to come out here fifteen minutes earlier than you say 
you did, and nobody to tell us you just ate and ran. Like 
that story about you and Miss Vickery discussing the plot 
of a play, when Parsons heard you. How do I know that 
isn’t just a cover-up, too?” 

“Like my finding the pen for you, I suppose!” Steve 
retorted. “Thanks.” 

“Well, why not? I thought it funny, your knowing 
so much about the weapon ... if it was the weapon. 
Not a bad stall, either, considering that penholder had 
been carefully wiped off.” 

“Good Lord, man!” Steve’s eyes were furious. “Do 
you think I could kill a woman . . . that way?” 

“I don’t know. You could have choked her. Maybe 
Miss Vickery was the one who finished the job, knowing 
if she didn’t, Mrs. Kirby, when she came to, would 
accuse her . . .” 

“That’s a lie!” 

“Maybe. But I hear from New York the young lady 
once studied to be a trained nurse, and might know just 
how to drive a sharp-pointed instrument into the proper 
spot in somebody’s spine.” 

“Oh!” Ann turned a flat white; she seemed choking. 

“Shut up, damn you!” Steve roared. “You know well 
enough she didn’t do it! You know Mrs. Kirby was 
murdered on account of that photograph!” 



102 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


The Inspector shook his head; he was very patient. 

“That’s just what I don’t know,” he replied. “Seems 
to me if anybody connected with the picture killed her, 
they’d have been a fool to go away and leave evidence 
like that lying around. Pointing right at them. Maybe 
the photograph was brought, left here by that woman 
who called, and after she’d gone you folks got busy, on 
account of the pearls. You said yourself you saw some¬ 
body leave through the garden. Maybe the photograph 
and Mrs. Kirby’s death are two separate jobs. Maybe they 
haven’t anything to do with each other. At least that’s 
how it looks to me now. You can’t get away from the 
fact that if this unknown caller committed the murder, she, 
or he, would never have walked off and left a quarter of 
a million dollar necklace behind. Whoever hid those 
pearls in the vase, it must have been somebody who knew 
they’d be able to get at them, later on. Somebody in the 
house. And unless you are ready to accuse Mrs. Kirby’s 
daughter . . 

“Nonsense!” Steve snarled. “She isn’t the kind of girl 
who’d murder her mother. Or steal her jewelry either! 
Especially as she’d get it all anyway, in the long run.” 

“That’s just how / figure it, young fellow.” The In¬ 
spector gave Steve a frosty smile. “That’s what makes 
things look so bad right now for you two. Unless Miss 
Kirby was working with her boy-friend, de Zara . . . 
I can’t see . . .” 

The Inspector paused as the door behind him was 
pushed open. Jean Kirby came into the room. Her tall, 
fine figure drooped a little under the weight of her grief; 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


103 


her cheeks were like dry clay; against them the dark 
circles of her eyes seemed enormous. 

“I heard what you just said, Inspector Duveen,” she 
whispered huskily. “I couldn’t talk last night, I was too 
upset, frightened. I still am. But I’ve been thinking things 
over. Aren’t you satisfied with Nick’s . . . with Count 
de Zara’s alibi? I understand Georgette has confirmed 
it.” 

“Well,” Duveen admitted, “their story isn’t conclusive. 
If he and the maid were working together, they’d nat¬ 
urally back each other up. Nothing to prevent that French 
girl from coming out here, seeing your mother, murdering 
her, maybe, and then going back to the apartment, 
swearing she and the Count were together all the time.” 

Jean Kirby raised her chin. 

“Very well,” she said. “If that’s what you think I may 
as well tell you the whole story. I would have, last night, if 
I hadn’t been so frightened, so . . . shocked, by what had 
occurred. I didn’t drop Count de Zara at his apartment 
at eleven o’clock and drive around alone. That wasn’t 
true. I don’t lie, as a rule. It’s rather cheap, I think. But 
last night I was confused . . . afraid. So I said the first 
thing that came into my head. I didn’t leave Nick at his 
studio. I stayed there with him. And Georgette. Until 
after twelve o’clock.” 

“Why?” the Inspector asked coldly, doubt in his still, 
blue eyes. 

“I was afraid you’d ask that. It’s one reason I hesitated 
to speak last night. I knew you’d want to know why 
Georgette Masson was there. Now I will tell you, since 



104 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


I must. Two years ago my mother had an affair with 
Count de Zara, at Cannes. That was before he came to 
America, met me. A harmless enough flirtation, I believe, 
although it’s unimportant now. Just a middle-aged 
woman, neglected by her husband, flattered by the at¬ 
tentions of a polished, younger man. Nick told me all 
about it, weeks ago . . . when he proposed. This girl, 
Georgette, was with mother, at Cannes, knew about the 
affair. Later, when the Count came to America, began 
to pay attention to me, Georgette went to mother, black¬ 
mailed her. Not for much . . . just petty graft. Naturally 
you can see how mother would have resented the story 
getting around. Even an innocent story would have made 
her the laughingstock of her friends. So she paid 
Georgette to keep her mouth shut. A month ago, the 
woman left. I didn’t know why, then. I do, now. She 
was after bigger game.” 

“You mean the Count?” Inspector Duveen asked. 

“Yes. As soon as she found out Nick wanted to marry 
me, she began to bother him. She knew, you see, that 
mother was opposed to our marriage . . . overheard us 
quarrelling about it, I’m afraid. So she went to Nick and 
threatened to tell me about the affair, unless he agreed to 
pay her a lot of money. Nick laughed at her, said I knew 
about it already. Georgette didn’t believe him . . . 
thought he was bluffing. So he arranged with me to meet 
the woman at his studio last night to prove to her I didn’t 
care a rap what she said. That I was going to marry Nick 
in spite of it ... in spite of anybody.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


105 


V 


“H . . . m.” The Inspector said. “You mean, then, 
Miss Kirby, that you’re prepared to back up Count de 
Zara’s alibi by swearing on oath you were with him at 
his apartment last night? At the time your mother 
was . . . killed.” 

“Yes!” Jean Kirby replied steadily. “I am.” 

“Then if that’s the truth, and you’re not merely trying 
to shield a man you’re in love with, why didn’t de Zara 
tell me so when I questioned him last night?” 

“I imagine, being a gentleman, he didn’t want to in¬ 
volve me in a scandal. He would have had to explain 
why I was there, you see.” 

“And why didn’t the maid, this Georgette, say so,” 
the Inspector went on relentlessly, “when I questioned her 
this morning?” 

For the first time Jean Kirby hesitated; she seemed 
not quite sure of herself. 

“I don’t know. Unless she was afraid to. Count de 
Zara told her last night if she ever breathed a word of 
scandal about either me or my mother he’d . . . break 
her neck!” 

“He wouldn’t be likely to break it, Miss Kirby,” the 
Inspector interrupted coldly, “for saying something that 
may save his own. Don’t you realize that unless this Mas¬ 
son woman confirms the statement you have just made, 
it isn’t worth anything? So far she hasn’t, and I don’t 
mind telling you I’m keeping her locked up where 
nobody is going to tip her off.” 

“She’s afraid of him, I tell you! Of Count de Zara!” 



io6 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Afraid he’d commit murder ? Do you think he 
would?” 

“Yes. So would you, if anybody attacked the good 
name of your sweetheart, your mother!” 

The Inspector looked at Steve. 

“If all this is true, young fellow,” he said, “it makes 
things that much worse for you and Miss Vickery.” 

“Miss Vickery?” Jean Kirby went up to the girl, put 
an arm about her. “That’s absurd. Why should she, or 
Mr. Ransom, wish any harm to my mother?” 

“They could have been after her pearls.” 

“Her pearls? You mean her pearl necklace?” 

“Of course. Somebody got it!” 

Jean stared at the Inspector, surprised. 

“I don’t understand you,” she said. “Of course I know 
very little about the case, except what I heard during the 
few moments I was in this room last night. I’ve been 
trying to sleep, ever since. But my mother’s pearls were 
not stolen.” 

“How do you know?” The Inspector exclaimed. 

“I know, because I have them!” 

“You have them?” Inspector Duveen’s eyes, until now 
a little bored, flashed with new suspicion. “How is that?” 

“It’s quite simple. Mother wore the necklace at her 
luncheon yesterday. When it was over, she called me to 
her room, gave me the string, told me to keep it for her 
until morning. I don’t know why . . . didn’t ask her. 
She’d done the same thing once or twice before. Mother 
was always careless about her jewelry. I’ve been wonder¬ 
ing since then, if she’d arranged to meet somebody alone 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


107 


here last night, whether she could have thought it wiser 
not to have the necklace on her person.” 

“I see,” the Inspector said coldly. “So she gave it to 
you?” 

“Yes. Just to keep for her overnight, I mean . . . not 
permanently.” 

“I see,” the Inspector repeated, even more coldly. “And 
what did you do with the string?” 

“Why ... I put it in my purse.” 

“You did, eh? Put a valuable thing like that in your 
purse, and went out to dinner?” 

“Yes. With Count de Zara.” 

“And according to your story, you were with him all 
evening, until you came back here, at one o’clock?” 

“Of course. What are you hinting at?” 

“Just trying to get the facts. At one o’clock, you came 
into this room, stayed five or six minutes, then went up to 
your suite on the floor above. Right?” 

“Certainly it’s right. And I still don’t see the point 
of your questions.” 

The Inspector frowned, his eyes hardening. 

“The point is this, Miss Kirby,” he said. “If you car¬ 
ried those pearls around with you in your purse all eve¬ 
ning, you must have them now.” 

“But I told you I had them,” Jean Kirby said, a gleam 
of bewilderment in her eyes. 

“Where?” Duveen snapped the question like the lash 
of a whip, at the same time watching the girl’s eyes to 
see if they would turn toward the clump of hydrangea 
blossoms, the marble vase at the solarium door. Instead, 




io8 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


to his disappointment, they dropped to the suede bag she 
held clutched in her fingers. 

“Why, here!” she exclaimed, opening it. 

Duveen watched the girl narrowly, a trace of amuse¬ 
ment in his frosty blue eyes. He was waiting for her to cry 
out, to assert that someone had stolen the necklace from 
her during the night. 

Instead, she raised her hand, held before his astonished 
eyes a superb string of perfectly matched pink pearls! 





XI 


Inspector Duveen was not often taken by surprise; in 
such cases he usually managed to conceal his feelings 
behind a suitable mask. 

On this occasion, however, his $ avoir jaire failed him; 
he was left blinking. One of his hands, the left one, be¬ 
cause of its full complement of fingers, slid into his coat 
pocket, came out again, in a gesture almost automatic. 

“What do you know about these?” he asked. 

Jean Kirby bent to examine the half-dozen small, iri¬ 
descent globes that rolled in the palm of his hand. 

“Imitations,” she said. “Not very good. Mother bought 
a string like that in Paris for eight hundred francs. She 
used to laugh, when her friends couldn’t tell them from 
her real ones. It’s not easy, at a glance. But as soon as 
you compare them,” she draped the genuine necklace 
over Inspector Duveen’s outstretched fingers, “you see?” 
The delicate sheen and lustre of the real pearls was un¬ 
mistakable. 

The Inspector saw nothing . . . but red. Someone, he 
felt, had tried to make a monkey of him, by planting 
false clues. His mental vision took on an even more 
magenta shade when he glanced at the message one of 
his men handed from the doorway. 


109 


no 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Hoffman,” it read, “just telephoned that the pearl 
turned over to him in the Kirby case is phony.” 

Inspector Duveen crumpled the note between his 
fingers. The look he gave Jean Kirby was unfriendly. 
He was thinking that if de Zara, or the maid, had 
murdered Mrs. Kirby, stolen her necklace, the story he 
had just heard was excellently designed to protect them. 
Not that he was prepared to accuse the girl of complicity 
in her mother’s death, but she might be willing, after the 
event, to try to keep her sweetheart out of it! How 
simple, how easy, to say the real string had been given 
her by her mother; the statement could never be dis¬ 
proved, now. And how equally simple, to drop the imi¬ 
tation pearls into the flower vase, thus making it appear 
that these were the ones Mrs. Kirby had been wearing 
at the time of her death! As for the suddenly offered 
alibi, it sounded as artificial as the pearls themselves. 

“Miss Kirby,” he said, “I think I had better keep this 
necklace for the present. Until after the inquest, at any 
rate. If your story, that you were with Count de Zara 
from eleven until twelve last night, is true . . 

“Then you doubt it?” Jean Kirby exclaimed, indig¬ 
nant. 

“I must until your statement is verified.” 

“In which case you will be making the very mistake 
the murderer hoped you would make,” the girl went on 
angrily. “When he left that photograph behind. Or she 
. . . in case it was a woman!” 

“Photograph?” The Inspector’s eyes narrowed to hot 
blue slits. “What do you know about any photograph?” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


in 


“I know one was found, because Edward told me so. 
And I know, if Nick ... if Count de Zara was in it, 
that it could only have been left to incriminate him.” 

“Then you’ve seen the picture, have you?” 

“Of course. Nick showed it to me when . . . when 
he told me about what happened at Cannes . . . pro¬ 
posed. I’ve explained all that to you.” 

“But you haven’t explained, Miss Kirby,” the Inspector’s 
voice dripped acid, “how, if the picture was in Count 
de Zara’s possession, anybody else could have brought 
it here, left it on your mother’s desk, last night!” 

“Oh!” The girl drew back, her shoulders sagging. 
“You mustn’t think . . . you couldn’t, that Nick would 
have . . 

“I’ve already told you, Inspector,” Steve began hotly, 
“what de Zara said . . .” 

He got no further. Duveen turned on him with a 
black scowl. 

“Never mind what de Zara said!” he shouted. “I’m 
asking this lady now!” 

“And I can’t tell you,” Jean whispered. “I ... I don’t 
know!” The girl was sobbing pitifully, as though about 
to collapse. Ann Vickery went up to her and took her 
arm. 

“You’d better rest awhile, Miss Kirby,” she said, eyeing 
Duveen angrily. “I’m sure you are in no shape to be 
questioned further.” 

“All right.” The Inspector nodded, watching the two 
women through the door. 

Steve lit a cigarette, sat on the arm of a chair. 




112 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I didn’t mean to butt in, Inspector,” he said, “but I 
feel kind of sorry for that girl.” 

“So do I.” Duveen stood staring at the hydrangea 
vase. “Murder cases aren’t joy-rides. Take my advice, 
young fellow, and keep your nose out of this one. I’ve 
been pretty easy with you, so far, but don’t take advantage 
of it. Understand?” 

“I do. And believe it or not, I’m trying to help. By 
the way, as long as I made the suggestion I did about that 
penholder last night, would you mind telling me what the 
post-mortem showed? Was it really the weapon? I have 
a reason for asking.” 

“Looks so. It fitted the wound. But a lot of other 
things might have fitted it, too. That puncture in Mrs. 
Kirby’s neck wasn’t very deep. Didn’t have to be, to reach 
the spinal cord. Just an inch or so. Plenty of things 
might have been used. Even an ice-pick. Why?” 

“Just an idea,” Steve said, thinking of de Zara’s small 
stiletto. “I’ll let you know, if anything worth while comes 
of it. By the way, I seem to remember a couple of dogs, 
about the house. Saw them yesterday. Scotch deer¬ 
hounds. You’d think they’d have made some sort of a 
row.” 

The Inspector nodded wearily. 

“Any more bright ideas?” he growled. “Next thing 
you know, Colonel Bliss will be hiring you as a brain 
trust. Those dogs were locked down cellar. In the 
west wing. Always are, at night.” He chewed for a 
moment on his cigar. “Look here. About those phony 
pearls. I don’t want that story to get to the newspapers.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


111 

“It won’t, from me,” Steve laughed. “Now, if you have 
no objections, Inspector, I’d like to go and see Dr. 
Badouine.” 

“What do you want to see him for?” 

“I’m hoping to get his help,” Steve said quietly. “He’s 
an intelligent guy, for one thing. And for another, he 
knows all the persons concerned. I may be all wrong, 
but it seems to me a little psychiatry . . 

“Huh!” The Inspector gave a short and very expres¬ 
sive grunt. 

“The doctor said he’d be free at two o’clock,” Steve 
went on, “in case I cared to come. So if you don’t 
mind . . .” 

Inspector Duveen regarded Steve steadily for a long 
moment, his opaque, china-blue eyes singularly expres¬ 
sionless. 

“All right,” he said at length. “Go ahead. If he gives 
you any good leads, come back here and tell me about 
them. Hunter!” He called down the hall. “Let Mr. 
Ransom have his car . . . you needn’t put a tail on him.” 

“Thanks,” Steve grinned. “Does that mean I’m 
scratched off your list of suspects?” 

“No.” Duveen’s expression was bleak. “It means I’m 
trusting you to come back here, that’s all. If you don’t 
. . . if I have to send somebody after you . . . well, you 
won’t be living at a hotel any longer ... is that clear?” 

“As a bell,” Steve replied. “A whole chime of bells, in 
fact. Don’t worry. I’ll be back all right. So long.” 


i 



XII 


There was just time, Steve found, to stop for a bite of 
lunch, before keeping his appointment with Dr. Badouine 
at two o’clock. 

He ascended the steps of the large, old-fashioned house 
on K Street, hopeful, but by no means optimistic. 

It was very possible that the doctor, having treated 
Mrs. Kirby during her recent nervous breakdown, might 
know something of her enemies, her fears. Whether pro¬ 
fessional ethics would prevent him from discussing such 
matters, in a search for possible murder motives, was 
another question. 

Steve gave his name to the crisply starched secretary, 
followed her into the consulting room, not over-sanguine. 

Dr. Badouine’s greeting, however, his firm, friendly 
handshake, somewhat reassured him. 

“Glad to see you, Mr. Ransom,” he said, pointing to a 
chair. “Sit down. And tell me the latest news about 
poor Mrs. Kirby’s death. Have the police discovered any 
worth-while clues?” 

Steve mentioned the penholder, the results of the post¬ 
mortem, the dead hairs found in the murdered woman’s 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


115 

fingers, the discovery of the pearls, repeating the In¬ 
spector’s caution that the latter bit of evidence was not 
to be given to the newspapers. So far as the snapshot 
found on the desk was concerned, the doctor had seen that, 
or at least a part of it, the night before. 

“Apparently,” Steve concluded, “the woman who came 
to the house last night must have worn a wig and was 
thus not necessarily a brunette. Nor, for that matter, not 
necessarily a woman. As for the pearls, Inspector Duveen 
thinks they were planted ... a false clue.” 

“But why?” 

“Well, everyone knew Mrs. Kirby was wearing a neck¬ 
lace during the evening. Miss Vickery, the servants, so 
testified . . . thought it the real string. Suppose it 
was. Then the murderer got the genuine pearls and left 
the phony ones in their place.” 

“What good would that do, if the real string is miss- 
ing?” 

“But it isn’t missing. That’s just the point. Miss Kirby 
has it. Says her mother gave her the necklace yesterday 
afternoon. To take care of. She might be saying that to 
protect de Zara; they were together, she says, at his apart¬ 
ment. I don’t accuse the girl, of course. Certainly not 
of anything more than trying to help her sweetheart. But 
whoever took those fake pearls from Mrs. Kirby’s bed¬ 
room, hid them in the flower vase, must have been some¬ 
one inside the house, and since it wasn’t- Miss Vick- 
>> 

ery . . . 

“You feel sure of that, do you?” 

“Of course!” 



116 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


The doctor shook his head, a faint smile about his 
eyes. 

“When do you think Miss Kirby could have done it?” 
he asked. 

“Why . . . this morning sometime . . .” 

“Haven’t you forgotten that one of the imitation pearls 
was found on the floor last night?” 

“That’s so.” Steve laughed, a bit foolishly. “Then the 
things must have been planted in the vase last night.” 

Again Dr. Badouine smiled. 

“Isn’t it much more reasonable,” he said, “to believe 
that Mrs. Kirby was wearing the imitation string when 
she was killed ? And that the murderer, discovering they 
were of no value, simply tossed them into the vase?” 

“How could he discover that so quickly? They’d fool 
the average person . . . unless he had a chance to com¬ 
pare them . . .” 

“Possibly our murderer is not an average person. And 
there is also the chance that Mrs. Kirby on finding she 
was about to be choked, may have tried to save herself 
by muttering something to the effect that the string was 
not genuine.” 

“In which case we have to suppose that a desperate 
killer, in a hurry to escape, would take the trouble to 
pick up all those pearls from the floor and put them in 
the vase. He only missed one, you remember. Which 
proves the string was broken. I still think the whole 
thing a plant.” 

“You may be right.” The doctor nodded. “But if so, 
I am afraid it looks rather bad for Miss Vickery.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 117 

“Nonsense!” Steve exclaimed, very red. 

Dr. Badouine gazed across the glass-topped desk, his 
clever face no longer smiling. 

“You have asked my help, Mr. Ransom,” he said 
gravely, “and I am trying to give it to you; my remarks 
are not meant to be personal. We know Miss Vickery 
was in the house at the time of the murder. And we 
know Miss Kirby was not . . 

“How do we know she wasn’t? First she claims to 
have been driving about. Now she says she was with de 
Zara, at his apartment. I don’t believe she had anything 
to do with the murder . . . that would be absurd. But 
she may have been the tall woman who came to the house 
around eleven o’clock! Suppose she had reason to think 
de Zara might have done the killing, or was in danger 
of becoming involved in it! Couldn’t she have picked up 
those pearls, dropped them in the vase, to throw sus¬ 
picion on somebody else? And then ran out, just before 
I got there?” 

Dr. Badouine asked a slow, deliberate question. 

“On whom did it throw suspicion, so far as the police 
are concerned?” 

“Why ... on Miss Vickery . . . damn it!” 

“There you are. That is why I suggested the danger 
of insisting that the pearls were a plant. I still believe 
they were placed where you found them by the murderer. 
And if the fact of their having been picked up from the 
floor seems unreasonable, assuming he knew they were 
valueless, then we are forced to conclude that he ... or 
she . . . did not know that, and hid the pearls in the 





118 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


flower vase supposing them to be real, and expecting to 
recover them at his . . . or her . . . leisure.” 

Steve Ransom ground his cigarette into an ash tray, 
frowning. This, he remembered, was precisely the line of 
argument Inspector Duveen had employed, in question¬ 
ing Ann. It seemed logical enough . . . horribly so! 
And taken in connection with the girl’s orders to move 
the vase from the room that morning . . . 

“Look here, doctor,” he said. “What I hoped to get 
from you was a possible reason for Mrs. Kirby’s death. A 
motive. Can you, from your knowledge of her ... ah 
. . . troubles, suggest one?” 

Dr. Badouine sat drumming his well-kept fingers on 
the desk-top. 

“I spoke last night of Mrs. Kirby’s dislike for Count 
de Zara,” he replied. “I may even say, without going too 
far, her hatred; it amounted to that. But whether de 
Zara hated Mrs. Kirby, strongly enough to kill her, is of 
course beyond my knowledge. I understand you saw him, 
and talked with him this morning. What is your opin¬ 
ion?” 

“I don’t know. He seemed very much upset.” 

“Naturally. And what was it you learned from him 
that caused you to suspect this actor, Dane?” 

“Why, something de Zara told me about the photo- 
graph.” 

“Photograph?” the doctor asked vaguely. 

“Yes. The one Duveen showed you last night.” 

“Oh . . . that!” Dr. Badouine smiled. “To be exact, 
I was shown only half of it.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


111 

“Well, you’ve seen more than I have,” Steve said. 
“Duveen isn’t taking anybody into his confidence, on 
that subject. But I do know the picture belonged to de 
Zara; he kept it locked in a box at his apartment, a sort 
of steel casket.” 

“Then,” the doctor said sharply, “if, as I assume from 
Inspector Duveen’s questions last night, it was found on 
the scene of the crime, how does de Zara explain its 
presence?” 

“He says someone stole the picture from his studio, 
during a party he gave there not long ago. Dane was one 
of the guests.” 

“Easy to say.” Dr. Badouine’s expression was cynical. 
“So you went to see Dane ? What did you find out from 
him?” 

“Nothing very definite. He’d been up most of the 
night, was nervous, jittery . . . whether from being 
grilled by the police, or too much White Label Scotch 
I couldn’t tell. That boy sure can punish his liquor; buys 
it by the case, he says. However, he did let out a word 
or two that made me feel he knew something about the 
photograph.” 

“How so?” 

“Well, when I mentioned the fact that it might have 
been stolen, he said, to protect himself, no doubt, that 
anyone could have taken it from the box. And the funny 
part was, that up to then I hadn’t told him de Zara kept 
the picture in a box. So you see . . .” 

“Yes.” The doctor nodded. “And what do you con¬ 
clude?” 





120 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Either that Dane saw someone else steal the picture, or 
took it himself!” 

“I see. Very likely.” Dr. Badouine got up, began to 
pace the floor, his head bent. “Now we are getting some¬ 
where. What does Inspector Duveen think of this? I 
consider him a man of unusual ability.” 

“I don’t know. As soon as I mentioned the picture he 
blew up. Afraid, as I told you, that some word of it might 
get to the newspapers.” 

“I can understand that . . . assuming the photograph 
may have involved Mrs. Kirby or her daughter. The 
Senator would be a dangerous man to antagonize. But 
to come back to Dane. If he stole the picture he may be 
the murderer.” 

“And if he didn’t steal it,” Steve added quickly, “but 
knows who did, he will probably, now that I’ve put him 
wise to the importance of the matter, go straight to the 
police!” 

“Do you think so? Not necessarily. Suppose, for in¬ 
stance, he saw Senator Kirby take the photograph? I 
happen to know,” the doctor added, with his quick, com¬ 
prehending smile, “that the Senator was a guest at that 
party, for I was there myself. And I also know, and feel 
free to say so, that he, Senator Kirby, has been trying for 
some time to find evidence to enable him to secure a 
divorce. Possibly he decided to look for it, in de Zara’s 
souvenir casket.” 

“And having found it,” Steve muttered, “promptly 
murdered his wife!” 

“That is a possibility, we must admit. You see, I happen 
to know that Mrs. Kirby and de Zara met abroad. And 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


I 21 


while I have seen only half the snapshot in question, I 
could not help reading part of a tender love-message 
written across the bottom of it. Senator Kirby is a man 
of violent temper. If he thought his wife had been carry¬ 
ing on an affair with de Zara, he might have killed her, 
in a fit of rage.” 

“Exactly. But you started to tell me why you think 
Dane, if he saw Kirby take the picture, wouldn’t tell the 
police.” 

“That is elemental. By going to the police, he will gain 
nothing, except a little cheap notoriety. By going to 
Senator Kirby, he might possibly sell his silence for a 
very large sum.” 

“Of course,” Steve muttered, “of course! Stupid of me 
not to think of it. You sure do know human nature, 
doctor.” 

“At least some phases of it . . . not always the pleasant¬ 
est phases, either. But we must not allow Senator 
Kirby’s hatred of his wife to run away with our judg¬ 
ment. Mrs. Kirby herself had every reason to want to 
obtain possession of that photograph.” 

“But Mrs. Kirby wasn’t at de Zara’s party.” 

“I know. But her lawyer, Judge Tyson, was.” 

“Good Lord!” Steve gasped. “I remember now de 
Zara said the judge was there. Maybe Dane saw him 
take the picture!” 

“In which case,” the doctor went on, smiling, “our 
clever but penurious actor would be in an even better 
position. Mrs. Kirby is . . . was ... an extremely 
wealthy woman.” 

“That might account for the bonds,” Steve muttered. 



122 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Bonds? What bonds?” The doctor paused in his 
pacing. 

“Oh, a couple of hundred thousand dollars’ worth, 
found in Mrs. Kirby’s safe; it seems she got them from 
the bank sometime yesterday. What I mean is, sup¬ 
posing Dane, instead of seeing someone else take the 
picture, stole it himself, he may have gone there to the 
house and for some reason killed her. Only, I can’t quite 
see what she meant about that nail.” 

“Nail?” Dr. Badouine asked quickly. “I’m afraid I 
don’t follow you.” 

“Just before Mrs. Kirby was killed, Miss Vickery, who 
occupied the suite above, heard her cry out something 
that sounded like ‘The nail!’ or ‘That nail!’ ” 

Dr. Badouine stood staring at his desk-top with a some¬ 
what puzzled smile. 

“Afraid I can’t help you, there,” he said. “It doesn’t 
make much sense, does it? Unless,” he added suddenly, 
“what Miss Vickery heard was not ‘That nail,’ but ‘Black¬ 
mail.’ After all, the two do sound very much alike.” 

Steve jumped from his chair. 

“You’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “Blackmail! And 
whoever the blackmailer was, he undoubtedly killed her, 
before she could alarm the house! Probably Dane! He 
must have stolen the photograph himself!” 

“Certainly,” Dr. Badouine agreed, “he had the op¬ 
portunity; de Zara left the box open for an hour or more, 
to my personal knowledge, after getting out his Napole¬ 
onic letter.” 

“Of course there were others who had a similar op- 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


123 


portunity,” Steve suggested, “and might have wanted the 
photograph, too, as we’ve just said. Judge Tyson, Senator 
Kirby, Luke Reed, and a woman with him whose name I 
don’t know. There was also an actress who came with 
Dane . . .” 

“True.” The doctor nodded. “But Dane’s chances 
were much better than the others.” 

“Why?” 

“Because, while de Zara was playing, singing his 
Dalmatian songs, we all were gathered about the piano; 
all, that is, except Dane. He spent a great deal of time in 
the front part of the room where the bar was. I couldn’t 
see him, because of an intervening screen . . . didn’t try 
to, in fact. Having heard he was a heavy drinker, I 
naturally concluded that he preferred highballs to de 
Zara’s musical efforts, but now you have told me about 
the missing photograph, his actions become significant.” 

“I’ll say they do!” Steve agreed. “Just how, doctor, 
would you reconstruct the crime?” 

“Well,” Dr. Badouine said, sinking back into his chair, 
“I lay no claims to special knowledge in such matters, 
but as a guess why not something like this? Dane, 
we all know, used to be a fairly prominent actor. Cir¬ 
cumstances have reduced him to playing small parts in 
stock, at a small salary. He needs money, knows from 
being a visitor at the house, that there is trouble between 
Mrs. Kirby and her husband. When the Count opened 
his souvenir box, Dane noticed there were letters, photo¬ 
graphs, in it. At the first opportunity he investigated, saw 
the snapshot, took it, meaning to make use of the thing, 



124 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


inscribed with its tender message in Mrs. Kirby’s hand¬ 
writing, to extort money from her. Went to the house 
last night disguised as a woman . . . not a difficult mat¬ 
ter for an actor of his general appearance and build. 
When his demands caused his victim to cry out that she 
was being blackmailed he first choked, then killed her, 
fearing if he didn’t she would have him arrested on what, 
as you know, is an extremely serious criminal charge. 
No doubt he left the photograph behind hoping to in¬ 
volve de Zara.” 

“But the bonds,” Steve objected. “I still can’t see why, 
if Mrs. Kirby had them there to pay over to Dane in re¬ 
turn for the picture, she should have been surprised . . . 
should have cried out that she was being blackmailed. 
She knew that already.” 

“Then the only logical conclusion would seem to be,” 
the doctor replied, “that she had these bonds there for 
some other and entirely different purpose. Possibly to pay 
to de Zara, as a bribe for not marrying her daughter.” 

“Might be.” Steve sat staring at his cigarette. “One 
thing is certain; if her visitor was a man, in disguise, it 
wasn’t de Zara. That heavyweight couldn’t make up to 
look like a woman in a million years. But why would 
Dane do it? Disguise himself, I mean?” 

“Possibly to avoid being recognized by the servants.” 

“Possibly. But there is a chance that instead of a man 
in disguise Mrs. Kirby’s caller might really have been a 
woman. The red-headed ex-maid, for instance, with her 
carrot-top hid under a wig. Easy enough to open the 
French window, let de Zara in to do the killing.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


125 


“Except for his alibi.” 

“Yes.” Steve nodded. “It does look as if Dane was 
our meat. Any objection to my telling Inspector Duveen 
what you’ve just said about his stealing that picture?” 

“I didn’t see him steal it, remember. Merely suggested 
that he had an excellent opportunity.” 

“But you didn’t notice anyone else near the box?” 

“No . . . not that I remember.” 

“Well, then . . . what more do you want?” 

“To be a little surer of my ground.” Dr. Badouine 
smiled across the desk at Steve, his eyes very warm and 
human. “Both as a physician and a man, I prefer not to 
indulge in careless statements. Dane may be guilty, I am 
afraid he is, but we ought to avoid hasty conclusions . . . 
give him the benefit of every possible doubt. Before the 
police take any action, I should very much like to talk 
with him.” 

“I see,” Steve grinned. “A little psycho-analysis.” 

“Call it that, if you wish. At any rate, without being 
conceited, I do think that my experience as a psychiatrist 
could be put to some helpful use. A few questions might 
enable me to find out what, if anything, he really knows 
about Mrs. Kirby’s death.” 

“I’d guess plenty from the way he acted with me this 
morning. And the minute I tell the Inspector what 
you’ve said it’s a safe bet he’ll have Dane brought in at 
once, if only for a shellacking.” 

“Then don’t tell him. Or if you do, ask him not to 
make an arrest until tomorrow. That will give us an 
opportunity to see Dane tonight. I suggest that you 



126 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


call him up and make an engagement for after the per¬ 
formance . . . say we’ll stop by and take him to supper.” 

“We.” 

“Of course. Naturally I’m counting on your co-opera¬ 
tion. And I rather think, after your talk with him this 
morning, he’ll be more likely to meet you, than he would 
me alone, if only to find out what you know about that 
photograph. It may even scare him a little, assuming 
of course that he is guilty. Make him talk. Nothing like 
an uneasy conscience, and a few drinks, to loosen a 
man’s tongue. When shall I meet you? Half past ten?” 

“Too late. Better make it ten o’clock. At the theatre. 
Dane isn’t on in the last act, which is another reason I’m 
suspicious of him. No alibi, after ten-twenty or there¬ 
abouts. Ample time to put on a disguise, get out to 
Halfway House by a little after eleven . . .” 

“At ten o’clock, then.” The doctor put out his hand. 
“In the lobby. And remember, while this playing at 
detective work may be amusing, I am first of all a 
physician. My job is not to hurt, but to heal. So tell 
your Inspector to keep his bloodhounds off until we see 
if we can’t help Mr. Dane. He may have something on 
his conscience that is worrying him. Most of my time 
is spent persuading my patients to get rid of such knowl¬ 
edge, to drag it out into the light, where it can no longer 
do them harm.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “I’m not trying to hurt the poor 
guy either. But if he’s guilty he’ll have to suffer for it, 
I guess. Thanks a lot, doctor. See you at ten!” 





XIII 


Steve, telling his story to Duveen at Halfway House, 
did not find the Inspector greatly impressed. 

“Guesswork, most of it,” he said. “Just a chance Dane 
may have taken the picture, but no proof. See if you 
can’t dig up some facts. I don’t mind telling you” . . . 
Duveen was thinking of the half-burned correspondence 
card with Lawrence Dane’s name on it which had been 
found in the fireplace . . .” that I was about set to ask 
that bird a few questions myself. But tomorrow’s time 
enough; right now I’m investigating a couple of other 
angles.” 

“The doctor and I may get something,” Steve said. 
“I want to see the case settled if only so Miss Vickery 
and I can go home.” 

“You’re doing pretty well, young fellow, right here 
in Washington.” Duveen gave a chuckle. “The lady was 
asking me not ten minutes ago how soon you’d be back. 
Why don’t you check out at the hotel, and bunk in here 
for a day or two . . . until after the inquest, at any rate. 
That will give me a chance to keep an eye on you and 
give you a chance to be with your girl friend. It’s oke 
with the Senator, I asked him.” 


127 


128 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Is that an order?” Steve grinned. 

“Take it as one, if it’ll help.” 

“Help? Say, Inspector, you’re the top! I’ll speak to 
Senator Kirby about the matter right now.” 

Steve left the Inspector sitting in the morning room 
and went down the long corridor toward the west wing 
of the house. He was thinking, not of the murder, but 
of Ann Vickery. 

A great kid. Straight and fine as they made them. 
Even Duveen saw that; his suspicions of the girl ap¬ 
peared rather half-hearted. Of course, as an efficient 
police officer he was bound to follow up all leads, but 
nobody, however cynical, could look at Ann and believe 
her capable of a brutal, cold-blooded murder. At least 
he couldn’t. Rather absurd, to bring up the point that 
she had once been a student nurse. Trained nurses 
weren’t any more hard or cruel than other women; they 
were merely taught to be more efficient, to keep their 
emotions under control. He felt sure that Ann had 
plenty, behind her cool, direct eyes, her challenging 
smile. 

The door of Senator Kirby’s study was closed. A 
deep, oratorical voice answered the knock. 

“Come!” it said. 

Steve went into the room. Senator Kirby was bent 
over a carved oak desk, writing. His eyes were hollow 
from loss of sleep and his gaunt, bony face made one 
think of a dead Pharaoh. 

“I’m told by Inspector Duveen,” Steve said, “that I’m 
to stay here at your house for a day or two, until this 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


129 


dreadful affair has been cleared up. He wants me as a 
witness, at the inquest, and says he has your permission.” 

“Yes.” The Senator peered through his ragged grey 
eyebrows. 

“I’m sorry, of course, to trouble you . . .” 

“My permission ceases, young man, when you do 
trouble me. By talking too much. Or interfering in 
matters which are none of your concern. That is all.” 
The Senator resumed his writing. 

“Charming host!” Steve muttered, as he went out to 
the garden. Three women were coming toward him 
across the smoothly clipped lawn; in the afternoon sun¬ 
light they cast long, wavering shadows. 

Jean Kirby was one. The short, blonde woman be¬ 
side her he recognized as Mrs. Conover, whom he had 
met the afternoon before. The other figure was Ann. 

“How do you do,” Steve said, embarrassed. “I find, 
Miss Kirby, that at Inspector Duveen’s orders I am 
to be a guest here, in your house. I sincerely re¬ 
gret . . 

“It . . . it’s quite all right, Mr. Ransom.” The girl’s 
voice was as pale, as devoid of color as her cheeks. 
“Edward will see to it; I’ll speak to him.” 

“Please don’t trouble.” 

“Let me, dear.” Mrs. Conover laid her hand on the 
girl’s arm. “You run along and lie down for a while; 
I’ll come and rub your head.” She watched Jean go 
into the house, walking like a somnambulist. “Hasn’t 
closed her eyes all day; she’ll break down if she doesn’t 
get some sleep. Did you and Dr. Badouine find out 



130 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


anything?” She turned to Steve. “He told me you were 
coming to see him.” 

“Nothing definite,” Steve said. “Were meeting again, 
tonight. By the way, Mrs. Conover, I believe you at¬ 
tended a party at Count de Zara’s studio not long 
ago.” 

“Why, yes.” The woman seemed surprised. “Jean 
suggested it. The doctor took me. Nick wanted to 
show us his collection of pistols and things.” 

“He also showed you, didn’t he, a valuable letter?” 

“Yes. Written by Napoleon, I believe. From Malta, 
or Elba, or some such place; I wasn’t particularly in¬ 
terested . . . everybody writes letters . . . too many, 
mostly. Glad I haven’t the habit.” She glanced down 
at her small, heavily ringed hands, smiling enigmati¬ 
cally. 

“Did you notice where he kept the letter?” Steve 
asked. 

“I certainly did. In the loveliest box. Inlaid with 
gold. Like a queen’s jewel casket. And filled with old 
pictures and whatnot. Trophies of the chase, de Zara 
calls them; well, I wouldn’t say so to Jean but I’ll bet 
he’s done plenty of chasing. What’s your interest ? 
If you’re thinking of buying the box I can tell you 
now he won’t sell it; I asked him.” 

“No. I wasn’t.” Steve, meeting Mrs. Conover’s viva¬ 
cious eyes, noticed the tiny network of wrinkles sur¬ 
rounding them. A very attractive woman, but not so 
young in the sunshine, as under a kinder light. “I 
merely wondered if you remember any of the other 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


131 

guests at the party standing about that inlaid box, taking 
particular interest in it.” 

Mrs. Conover thought, regarding her scarlet finger 
tips. 

“Of course I wouldn’t be likely to, after all this 
time,” she said. “I recollect we had some bad music 
. . . Nick’s forte should be moving pianos, not play¬ 
ing them . . . and some worse whiskey . . . Mr. Reed 
wouldn’t drink it.” 

“You mean Luke Reed? Senator Kirby’s lawyer?” 

“Certainly. I always feel like giving the 'View Hal¬ 
loo’ whenever I see him. If Nature hadn’t forgotten a 
tail, he’d have been a perfect fox.” 

“Do you remember a rather large, handsome woman 
who came with him?” 

“If you mean Mrs. Mitchell, I certainly do. Only 
I shouldn’t call Babs handsome exactly. I mean 1 
shouldn’t. Looks too much like a horse for my taste. 
And I shouldn’t say she came with Mr. Reed, either, as 
long as Senator Kirby was in the party.” 

“And just what am I to understand from that?” 

“Suit yourself; it depends on how suspicious a na¬ 
ture you have. Only Luke Reed is a cast-iron bachelor; 
wouldn’t marry the best woman on earth, he says, 
which certainly let’s Babs out. And of course, when a 
prominent statesman uses his lawyer as a chaperon, 
I have my thoughts.” Mrs. Conover’s slanting, oriental 
eyes narrowed impishly. “Now that you speak of it, 
Babs . . . Mrs. Mitchell; she’s a widow . . . grass . . . 
and anxious to repeat . . . was interested in that jewel 




132 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


box of Nick’s, too. I saw her showing Mr. Reed the in¬ 
laid coat-of-arms on the lid, telling him she’d adore to 
have one like it, to keep her love-letters in; personally 
I doubt if a trunk would be big enough. Well, I must 
go rub poor Jean’s head. Bye.” 

Ann looked after her, smiling. 

“Nice pussy,” she said. “Shall we sit down? Or are 
you too busy?” 

“Haven’t a thing to do until I meet Dr. Badouine at 
ten o’clock; that gives us the rest of the afternoon, and 
half of the evening.” 

“For what?” Ann looked up expectantly; she was 
thinking how little time they had had with each other, 
so far. 

“My suggestion would be dinner. In town some¬ 
where. And a few spots of dancing, afterwards.” 

“Do you think the Inspector will let us go?” 

“We’ll ask him. After all, this isn’t our tragedy, even 
if we have been dragged into it. I think you need to 
get your mind off the thing for a while. 

Inspector Duveen, whom they found in the morning 
room, received their request with a cryptic smile. 

“Sure,” he said, regarding Steve shrewdly. “That will 
give you a chance, young fellow, to check out, at your 
hotel. Bring your suitcase, if you’ve got one, back 
here.” 

. “I hope so,” Steve said. “I wired for it.” 

“You people better use the back way,” Duveen went 
on. “There’s a mob of news hounds and camera men 
out front. “I’ll have one of the boys bring your car 
around.” He left them, went down the hall. 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


133 


Steve crossed the room, stood looking at the Della 
Robbia plaque that hid the wall-safe. It still stood open. 

“You can’t even see the hinges,” Ann said. 

“No. To look at it, you’d think it was just set in the 
plaster. Stonework, I mean.” He clicked the plaque 
shut. “Now how do you open the thing?” 

Ann ran her fingers along the edge of the bit of 
terra cotta work, projecting a quarter of an inch be¬ 
yond the smooth surface of the chimney breast. 

“There’s a little metal catch here,” she whispered, 
pressing it. At once the plaque swung open. 

Steve examined the small, bright bit of metal; it 
strongly resembled the circular head of a large wire 
nail. 

“Maybe,” he said, “but I doubt it. I think we’re all 
wet, about that nail business. Dr. Badouine has the 
right idea.” 

“What?” Ann asked. 

“He thinks what Mrs. Kirby called out just before 
her death was ‘Blackmail.’ ” 

“It’s an idea,” Ann said. “Rather a good one.” 

Inspector Duveen came in from the hall. 

“All set!” he announced. “Go out through the garden. 
And look here, you two, remember we’ve got a pretty 
good detective force here in Washington. We’re work¬ 
ing on a lot of angles you don’t know anything about. 
Stop worrying about this terrible affair and enjoy your¬ 
selves.” His smile, while amiable, was a bit frosty. 

Ann glanced at Steve, her eyes crinkling. 

“I can think of lots of things I’d rather talk about,” 
she said, “than murders.” 



XIV 


The hotel dining room, in spite of its smartly dressed 
crowd offered no facilities for dancing, but Steve, with a 
ten o’clock engagement ahead of him decided there was 
not time to hunt up a gayer place. He glanced across the 
table at Ann, sipping her demi tasse. 

“Not like other girls,” he said slowly. 

Ann’s head snapped up. 

“I hope that ancient wheeze,” she retorted, “doesn’t 
imply any essential lack ...” 

“Only the grin . . .” 

“What grin?” 

“The usual dental ad one. You know. All set to 
bite. What sharp teeth you have, Grandmother. Great 
mistake, I think. You’ve been sitting opposite me for 
almost two hours and haven’t done it once. Anyway, 
who wants to kiss a flock of teeth?” 

“I didn’t know anything had been said about kissing.” 

“Do I have to call my shots? I’ve been thinking 
about it ever since we met.” 

“What a strain. Twenty-four hours. I wonder you 
can stand it.” 

“Months, beautiful. Years. Ages.” 


134 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


135 


“The old ‘where have you been all my life?’ stuff. I 
expected better of you. Yesterday morning you didn’t 
even know I existed.” 

“And tonight I’m buying dinner for you. We live 
in a swift-moving age, darling. Who knows what 
new and even more delightful experience may be 
waiting for us, just around the corner?” 

Ann deliberately grinned; her small, even teeth were 
very white and lovely. 

“A lot of people,” she said, “have slipped up, pre¬ 
dicting what was just around that corner. Who, for 
instance, would have expected to run across a murder?” 

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the 
murder.” 

“You might find it more exciting.” 

“Impossible!” Steve shook his head. “In that re¬ 
spect you’re the top, angel. I know.” 

Ann’s long, almond-shaped eyes, drooping slightly 
at the corners, made her look almost oriental. 

“You don’t know anything about me,” she said, “ex¬ 
cept that I’m an interior decorator.” 

“I don’t even know that, except from what you’ve 
told me. Any more than you know I’m a playwright. 
In fact, from some of the things the critics said about 
my recent opus, it’s a matter of doubt.” 

“Which makes the score fifty-fifty. Neither of us has 
anything to live up ... or down ... to. We take 
each other as is. . . .” 

“For better or worse.” 
table. “I’m all for that.” 


Steve grinned across the 




136 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“In other words, we start from scratch. . . 

“No handicaps, in the way of husbands, fiances?” 

“None. And you?” 

“Not even a rich uncle, ready to die and leave me 
a million. I have to work for my champagne and 
caviar.” 

“Same here.” 

“Which makes us just a couple of poor but honest 
proletarians, doing our best to get along. What could 
be sweeter? Nothing between us but . . . love . . .” 

“And a murder.” 

“That’s twice you’ve come back to it. Why?” 

Ann crumpled her cigarette in the coffee saucer; 
her keen, sensitive face was suddenly grave. 

“Because it is there, facing us . . . will be, until the 
murderer is discovered. You’ve been awfully decent 
about it, but the fact remains that you don’t really 
know I didn’t kill Mrs. Kirby.” 

“Oh, yes I do.” 

“How?” 

“The same way I know there are such things as 
cosmic rays, and the force of gravity, and the North 
Pole. I’ve never seen any of them . . . don’t have to. 
We take things like that on faith. That’s the way I feel 
about you. Right?” 

“You’re sweet,” Ann said. “And I feel the same 
way about you. But other people don’t. Inspector 
Duveen, for one. He’s been very nice, but if it hadn’t 
been for that photograph he found under Mrs. Kirby’s 
head we’d both of us be locked up right now. And if 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


137 


he can find any reasonable explanation of its being 
there, apart from the murder, we will be.” 

“Yes,” Steve said uneasily, running his fingers 
through his cinnamon brown hair. “I know it. But 
after the doctor and I see Lawrence Dane tonight . . .” 

“Has it occurred to you,” Ann whispered, “that Mr. 
Dane might give that reasonable explanation. Suppose 
he should admit having stolen that photograph! Sup¬ 
pose he should say Mrs. Kirby asked him to steal it? 
They were old friends. Suppose he should say he gave 
it to her yesterday, after the luncheon party, saw her 
put it in her desk! Then where would we be?” 

“In the cooler.” Steve laughed, not a happy laugh. 
“Although at that, I can’t see what she was doing with 
it, when she was killed.” 

“Neither can I. Showing it to somebody, perhaps. 
What do you think of de Zara?” Ann suddenly asked. 

“Not a bad guy. He struck me as being straight¬ 
forward, sincere. Nothing to speak of, under the brain¬ 
pan, but very much in love with Jean Kirby. Why?” 

Ann was tracing intricate designs on the table cloth. 

“Don’t turn around,” she said softly, “but he’s sitting 
three tables behind you, in the corner. With a slender, 
dark woman who looks like a foreigner. French, per¬ 
haps, or Italian. They are both jabbering away ex¬ 
citedly and haven’t seen us.” 

Steve’s shoulders stiffened, but he did not turn until 
the arrival of the waiter with the check gave him an 
excuse to do so. 

“De Zara, all right,” he muttered, when the man had 



i 3 8 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


gone. “The woman’s a stranger. Nothing to it, I guess; 
only a fool would appear with his accomplice, in public.” 

“A fool ... or a very clever man. Ordinarily, after 
what has happened, I should not have expected to see 
him in public, with a woman, at all. But I suppose, 
leading a studio existence, he has to dine out some¬ 
where. Why not with a friend? Be careful . . . they’re 
going now.” 

As the Count and his companion reached the main 
doorway he turned and caught sight of Steve and Ann. 
With a word to the woman, he came across the room, 
smiling, bent over their table. 

“This is nice,” he murmured, kissing Ann’s hand. 
“How are you, Mr. Ransom? And my poor Jean? You 
will say that you met me, yes . . . and give her my 
love? Tonight I ask for dinner the wife of an old friend, 
from New York; she speaks no English, so I did not 
bring her to meet you. Now I must take her to the 
train.” He fumbled like a shy and overgrown school¬ 
boy with the paper-wrapped package he carried. “Some 
refreshment for her, on the journey, you understand. 
A little wine. Abroad, we do not understand the quaint 
American custom of drinking water. Now, you will 
excuse, it is necessary to make the hurry, or her train 
may depart.” He bowed stiffly from the waist in con¬ 
tinental fashion, was gone. 

Steve glanced at his watch. 

“We’ll have to be moving ourselves, sweetness,” he 
said quickly. “It’s after nine. Sorry about those dances 
but we’ll make up for it another time. I’ve got to check 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


139 


out here, take you to Halfway House, be back at the 
theatre to meet Dr. Badouine at ten. Anyway, we’ll 
have time for a little drive together. Maybe I’ll find 
those kisses I’ve been thinking about just around the 
corner.” 

Ann got up. Once more her lips curled in a round 
and stereotyped grin. 

“The better to bite you with, my dear,” she said. 

“Wuff . . . wuff!” Steve grinned back at her. The 
expression in Ann’s eyes stopped him. 

“Not like other girls,” she went on steadily. 

“Not even . . . around the corner?” 

Ann Vickery began to laugh. 

“There are lots of girls,” she said, “and lots of cor¬ 
ners. Better be sure both are the right ones, before you 
do anything rash.” 




XV 


There was no one in the lobby of the theatre when 
Steve reached it at ten o’clock, but a moment later Dr. 
Badouine joined him. 

“Was afraid I’d be late,” the doctor said. “Had to stop 
for oil and gas.” He looked at Steve, smiling. “Were 
you successful in making an engagement with Mr. 
Dane ?” 

“Didn’t try. Just left a note at his hotel saying I’d 
be around after the second act, to see him about some¬ 
thing important.” 

“You didn’t mention, then, that you were bringing 
me?” 

“No. I thought it might scare him. We’ll just say I 
ran into you, after the first intermission, and brought 
you along for a drink or something.” 

“Too bad,” the doctor said, a gleam of humor in his 
eyes, “that I haven’t seen the play. If Mr. Dane is like 
most actors, the surest way to gain his confidence, in¬ 
duce him to talk, is to tell him how much I enjoyed 
his acting.” 

Steve looked at his watch. 

“Ten-five. This act rings down about ten-twenty, if I 


140 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


141 

remember correctly; that will give us fifteen minutes 
to watch his work. He’s the whole show, in this par¬ 
ticular scene; if you butter him up on that, he won’t 
think about the rest of the performance. Wait; I’ll 
buy a couple of admission; we can stand back, until 
the curtain’s down.” 

The theatre was not crowded. Steve thought he saw 
Senator Kirby’s lawyer, Luke Reed, with a party in one 
of the lower boxes, but couldn’t be sure. He and the 
doctor hung over the rail, watching the act draw to its 
climax. Lawrence Dane, in the part of a brilliant but 
unscrupulous criminal lawyer, was arranging to sell 
out one of his clients, a boy accused of murder, in re¬ 
turn for certain political advantages; he carried the 
scene well. 

“I shouldn’t think, to look at him now,” Dr. Badouine 
whispered, “that he was a man who did much drink¬ 
ing.” 

“He doesn’t,” Steve whispered back, “before per¬ 
formances. I’ve always heard that about Dane. He’s 
what they call ‘a good trouper.’ But you can bet his 
first move when he gets back to his dressing room, will 
be to knock off a couple of Scotch highballs.” 

“Can’t say I blame him much,” Dr. Badouine was 
watching the stage. “Rather a trying part, I should 
imagine.” 

“It is. This scene, anyway; he hasn’t a great deal to 
do, in the rest of the play. Dane’s a fine actor. Used 
to be, at least. A little old-fashioned, now, for the cur¬ 
rent Broadway taste.” 



142 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


The scene was progressing rapidly, building up to its 
sudden and unexpected climax ... a climax in which 
Dane, the lawyer, having completed his deal at the cost 
of his client’s life, tells a woman about it . . . the woman 
with whom he is living . . . mentions, in an unguarded 
moment, the victim’s name. 

Steve turned to the doctor. 

“If you had seen the first part of the show,” he said, 
“you’d understand this better. The dame with the 
brassy top-piece is the accused boy’s sister.” 

“Yes, I know,” the doctor nodded. “Obviously there 
must be some such connection. Now what does she 
do?” 

“You’ll see,” Steve whispered, grinning. 

What the brassy-haired lady did was to snatch a 
pistol from her dressing-table and shoot the lawyer 
through the heart. 

“Well, that’s that!” Steve was yawning. “Not a bad 
finish, for an act.” The curtain came down to vigorous 
applause, rose again for curtain calls. Steve and the doc¬ 
tor strolled out to the lobby, now beginning to fill as 
smokers hurried from their seats. “Might as well have 
a cigarette, before we go back stage; give Dane time to 
shed his make-up,” Steve said. “How about you?” 
He held out his case. 

“Thanks.” The doctor shook his head. “Not one of 
my vices. If I had a wife,” he went on, laughing, “I 
suppose she would want me to explain that statement; 
luckily, being a bachelor, I don’t have to.” 

Steve lit a cigarette. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


M 3 


“Just what line are you going to take with Dane?” 
he asked. 

“Why, my idea was that you should tell him you’re 
certain he knows who stole that photograph, and want 
his help. Then we’ll see what he has to say. The fact 
that I am present will worry him considerably, because 
he will remember me as having also been a guest at 
de Zara’s party, and he can’t be sure how much I know. 
He may even think I saw him take the picture.” 

“Then you aren’t going to ask him a lot of ques¬ 
tions?” 

“He’ll probably tell us what we want without being 
asked, in an effort to clear himself. That’s human na¬ 
ture. Human psychology. A person will say much 
more, if you create in his mind the fear that you know 
something already. He will almost inevitably try to 
correct, to alter what he fears may be an unfavorable 
impression.” 

Steve tossed away his cigarette, pushed open the door 
to the street. 

“Come along,” he said. 

They followed the sidewalk to the narrow alley lead¬ 
ing to the stage entrance. The grey old man at the 
door peered at them over his glasses. 

“I’m Stephen Ransom, the playwright,” Steve said. 
“This gentleman and I have an appointment with Mr. 
Dane. Lawrence Dane.” 

“In his dressing room,” the doorkeeper mumbled. 
“Number 3 . Up them steps.” He waved toward an iron 
staircase. 





144 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Steve went first; he was familiar with the world back 
stage. 

“Mr. Dane!” he called, rapping briskly on the door 
of the dressing room. “It’s Ransom! Steve Ransom!” 

There was no response. Steve rapped again, then 
pushed the door wide. 

“Good God!” he gasped, horrified. 

Lawrene Dane, in his undershirt, lolled over the arm 
of a chair. His mouth hung open, horribly open; on the 
top of a trunk stood a glass and two bottles, one of 
liquor, the other, brown and slender necked, containing 
soda. Both were nearly full. Steve noticed these small 
details in the moment it took the doctor to reach Dane’s 
side. 

“He’s dead!” Dr. Badouine exclaimed, straightening 
up. “Looks as though he’d been poisoned! What a 
horrible situation! You’d better call the police!” 




XVI 


Steve dashed from the dressing room, ran down the 
steps to the stage entrance. Lawrence Dane dead! 
Poisoned, perhaps! It was incredible! Only a few mo¬ 
ments ago they had seen him leave the stage! The man 
they so certainly believed to be Mrs. Kirby’s murderer! 
Well ... he could still be that . . . guilty men be¬ 
fore now had dodged the gallows by the suicide route. 
Yet, for suicide, it seemed strangely premature; so far 
Dane had not even been accused of anything. 

“Telephone?” Steve called to the doorkeeper. 

The man blinked at him, annoyed. 

“You shouldn’t shout like that, young fellow,” he 
admonished. “They’ll hear you on stage. If you want 
to telephone you’ll have to go round front, or to the 
drugstore across the street.” 

Steve raced on, down the alley. Although, his brain 
told him, there was no need for such great haste, now. 
If Dane had killed himself . . . 

At the mouth of the alley a figure loomed against 
the street lights. A tall man, in plain clothes; Steve 
thought he had seen him before. 

“What’s your hurry, Mr. Ransom?” he asked. Then, 
misunderstanding the look of alarm on Steve’s face, he 


145 


146 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


added; “Inspector Duveen told me to keep an eye on 
you, see you didn’t get into any trouble. Been talking 
to Dane?” 

“Dane,” Steve muttered, “is dead! Dr. Badouine and 
I just found him . . .” 

“What?” The detective fought against the absurdity 
of the idea; he, too, had been standing out front, had 
watched the actor respond to a curtain call not ten 
minutes before. “Say, don’t kid me!” 

“You’d better come and see for yourself!” Steve said. 
“I was going to telephone the Inspector!” 

The man ran up the alley, charged past the aston¬ 
ished doorkeeper without a word. For a moment he 
spoke to the policeman back stage, then turned to 
Steve. 

“Show me where this guy’s dressing room is,” he said. 
“And . . . wait a minute!” He beckoned to the door¬ 
keeper. “Come here, Pop! Now get this! I’m from 
Headquarters . . . detective bureau, see? There’s some 
trouble back stage. You don’t let anybody in or out 
until the Inspector shows up, understand? Inspector 
Duveen. I’ve just sent that cop to telephone for him. 
When he gets back, he’ll stick around with you. At 
the door. You needn’t give any alarm just yet, get 
me? Keep your trap shut ... the show should be 
over in twenty minutes . . . half an hour. Right.” He 
turned to Steve. “Now where’s Dane?” 

They went up the stairs; the doctor was standing at 
the door of the dressing room. 

“This is Dr. Badouine,” Steve said. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


M 7 


“Yes, I know.” The detective nodded, went inside. 
“Was he just like this when you found him?” he asked, 
staring down at Dane’s limp body. 

“Just like that.” Dr. Badouine replied. “Except to 
feel his pulse, we haven’t touched anything. He was 
dead, when we arrived. While it is only a guess I should 
say, in the absence of any visible wound that he’d been 
poisoned.” 

“Looks like it.” The plain-clothes man inspected the 
two bottles, the glass, without touching them. “No 
trouble to tell, I guess, as soon as we have these ana¬ 
lyzed.” The whiskey bottle was almost full, and so 
was that containing the soda; the outside of the latter 
showed a film of moisture, condensed in tiny beads. 
There was perhaps a teaspoonful of pale liquid in the 
bottom of the glass. 

“He can’t have been dead over four or five minutes,” 
Dr. Badouine continued. “Some quick-acting poison 
such as potassium cyanide, I venture to say. Anything 
slower, taken before he went on the stage, would al¬ 
most certainly have made him ill during the perform¬ 
ance; as far as I could see, he acted quite normally, until 
the curtain fell.” 

The plain-clothes man pointed to the large bottle of 
soda. 

“That ain’t been off the ice ten minutes,” he said. 
“Notice the sweat on the glass. So somebody must 
have brought it.” He went to the top of the stairs, 
shouted down to the doorkeeper. “Hey, Pop . . . 
how’d Mr. Dane get the bottle of soda?” 



148 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“One of the call boys . . 

“Send him up here, quick!” 

The detective waited until the boy came to the top of 
the stairs; he did not let him see into the room. 

“You got Mr. Dane some soda?” 

“Yep. Quart. Across the street.” 

“When?” 

“Just now. When he came off stage after the second 
act. He gave me two bits, said to have it cold and 
hurry; he needed a high-ball!” 

“You take it into his room? This room?” 

“Yep. Opened it for him. He had a corkscrew in his 
knife, but gentlemen in his day, he said didn’t carry 
can openers; that’s a stock joke of his . . . he springs 
it on me every night.” 

“Oh, then you got him soda every night, eh?” 

“Sure. Regular. And opened it for him.” The boy 
took a metal implement from his pocket. 

“Ever take a drink with him?” 

“No.” 

“Didn’t, eh? Why not?” 

“He never ast me.” 

“All right. So you opened the soda. What then?” 

“Mr. Dane came across the room; he’d been washing 
the glass at the basin over there . . . poured himself a 
shot of liquor, filled it up with soda, and started to 
drink it.” 

“And what did you do?” 

“I went out and shut the door.” 

“Was Mr. Dane standing up when you left him?” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


149 


“No. He sat down in his chair, soon as he got the 
drink fixed.” 

“Why.was he washing the glass?” 

“To get it clean, I reckon,” the boy said pertly. “You 
see,” he went on, catching a frigid gleam in the de¬ 
tective’s eye, “Mr. Dane never drinks anything, dur¬ 
ing a performance. Not till he’s through for the night. 
That’s another thing he always told me. I guess he 
washed the glass out because it hadn’t been used since 
yesterday and what with the heel of last night’s drinks, 
and dust blowing in . . .” 

“That will be all for now, young fellow,” the detec¬ 
tive interrupted. “Inspector Duveen will want to see 
you a little later, when he gets here. Until then, keep 
your mouth shut; if you don’t, I’ll put you where you 
won’t have anybody to talk to. Understand?” He 
flashed his metal badge. 

The boy glanced at the door of the dressing room; he 
could not, from where he stood, see inside. 

“Has anything happened to Mr. Dane?” he asked, 
staring. 

“Yes, he’s sick!” the detective replied. “That’s under 
your hat, too! Now beat it!” 

“Right, sir.” The boy went down the iron stairs. 
The detective rejoined Steve and Dr. Badouine. 

“Do you notice,” Steve asked, “a strong smell of 
whiskey?” 

The plainclothes man sniffed, glancing about the 
small, ill-ventilated room. 

“No more’n I’d expect,” he said, “with the window 



150 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


shut, and a glass that’s just been used, on the table.” 
He crossed the room, stared through the grimy panes 
into the alley. “Shut, but not fastened; nothing in that, 
though; there’s bars outside.” 

Steve had noticed the rusty bars beyond the window. 
A usual protection against sneak thieves, but ample 
proof that no one, except the call boy could have en¬ 
tered the room. But was it? After the boy had left, 
some other visitor might have come in, joined Dane, 
from the corridor. He had been drinking his high¬ 
ball, the boy asserted, as the door was closed, but might 
there not have been a second drink? Steve glanced at 
the bottle of soda. Very little of it had been consumed; 
no more, he felt sure, than would have been needed for 
the first one. A comparatively simple test should tell. 
He explained his theory to the Headquarters man, who 
was sufficiently impressed to tear a shred of paper from 
the gummed flap of an envelope and paste it on the 
neck of the bottle. 

“That will show how much was poured out,” he 
said, “but I guess the Chief will have his own ideas. 
Hear him coming up now.” 

Voices and a creaking of heavy feet on the iron stair¬ 
way announced Inspector Duveen’s arrival. He stood 
at the door taking in the scene with hard, critical eyes. 
For a long, speculative moment they rested on Steve. 

“Well, well, young fellow,” he said ironically. “In 
at the death again, eh? You sure have got a fine 
nose for corpses.” 

Steve colored slightly, remembering that he had 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


— 

been the first to discover Mrs. Kirby’s body, as well. He 
was about to reply, when a commotion in the corridor 
outside the dressing room caused him to turn. 

The stage manager, aware of the growing excite¬ 
ment had come up to investigate, followed by several 
members of the cast. Duveen made short work of them. 

“Mr. Dane is dead,” he announced. “Heart attack. 
That’s all I care to give out, so far. No, you needn’t 
send for a doctor; we have one here. Go on with your 
show. Get the final curtain down. Let the audience 
leave. Everybody back stage is to stay until I’m through 
with them. That clear?” 

“Perfectly, perfectly,” the manager agreed, herding 
the group of actors and stage hands down the stairs. 
“Quiet, you people, it’s the police.” 

Duveen turned to the doctor and Steve. 

“Too bad you didn’t have a chance to try any of that 
psychological stuff,” he said with an ironic laugh. 

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Badouine retorted, flushing a 
little, “Mr. Dane was dead when we arrived. Which 
convinces me that Mr. Ransom and I were quite right 
in thinking he knew something about Mrs. Kirby’s 
murder.” 

“Maybe, maybe,” the Inspector said. “Well, let’s have 
your stories—and make them snappy. After that I 
won’t need you any more tonight.” 




Breakfast at Halfway House, since Mrs. Kirby’s 
death, had been an affair of individual trays. Steve, 
dressing, regretted the fact; he had looked forward to 
a talk with Ann Vickery about Dane’s sudden death. For 
some reason he kept thinking of it as murder. 

A hunch, he had said to Dr. Badouine the night be¬ 
fore, as they stood discussing the matter outside the 
theatre. But the doctor’s cool, scientific brain held no 
place for hunches. 

“I’m afraid you were right, Mr. Ransom,” he had said, 
“in linking Dane with Mrs. Kirby’s murder. Offhand, 
I should be inclined to say he killed her and took his 
own life to avoid being arrested for the crime.” 

“Looks like it,” Steve agreed. “Although it might be 
just as reasonable to argue that he knew who the mur¬ 
derer was, and got bumped off as a result. You remem¬ 
ber I always claimed he either stole that snapshot him¬ 
self, or knew who did steal it.” 

“I haven’t forgotten.” The doctor’s eyes twinkled 
shrewdly. “No doubt you realize the direction in which 
such a course of reasoning will almost certainly lead. If 
Dane tried to sell his knowledge to Senator Kirby . . 


152 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


153 


for a moment the doctor paused. “Both as Mrs. Kirby’s 
physician and her friend, I have been familiar for some 
time with the conditions existing between herself and 
her husband. The ancient domestic triangle, as old as 
the Garden of Eden. The French are right. We can 
never safely disregard their well-known maxim, ' Cher - 
chez la femme’ ” 

“Exactly,” Steve said, remembering his talk with Mrs. 
Conover. “And the woman in the case was one of the 
guests at de Zara’s party. Her name is Mitchell.” 

“So you’ve found that out, have you?” Dr. Badouine 
smiled cynically. “I could have told you about her be¬ 
fore, had I felt at liberty to do so. My information came 
from Mrs. Kirby; she knew about the woman, of course. 
In fact, it was one of the major causes of her recent 
mental disturbance. Did you also notice that she, Mrs. 
Mitchell, was one of a party with Mr. Reed, in a box at 
the show tonight?” 

“The devil she was!” Steve exclaimed. “I don’t know 
the woman by sight. Look here, do you think that she 
and Senator Kirby ... ?” 

The doctor held up his hand. 

“Please. I suggest nothing of the sort. My opinion, as 
I have already told you, is that Dane committed suicide. 
A mere guess, of course, based on conditions as we found 
them. To go further, pending an examination of the 
body, the two bottles, the glass, would be a waste of 
time. For all we know, the man may have died from a 
heart attack of some sort ... an acute dilitation, per¬ 
haps, brought on by excessive use of alcohol. I am sorry 




154 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


we did not have a chance to talk with him, as I think we 
might have discovered something of value. Well, good 
night.” The doctor stepped into his car. 

That had been the extent of their conversation. Steve 
ate his breakfast, wondering what Inspector Duveen 
would have to report. He had just finished his coffee 
when a tap sounded on the bedroom door, followed at 
once by the sudden appearance of Parsons, the shifty- 
eyed and shrill-voiced second man. 

“Senator Kirby would like to see you at once, sir,” he 
said, gathering up the breakfast dishes. “In his study, 
please.” 

“Very well,” Steve replied, and went down the stairs. 

The Senator, hunched over his desk, seemed not to 
have moved since the afternoon before; his large-boned 
face, however, was not quite so mummy-like; his cheeks 
showed a little more color. 

“Good morning!” he said, without cordiality. 

“Good morning, sir. You asked to see me?” Steve 
stood waiting. 

“Yes. Now that the mystery of my wife’s death seems 
explained, you will doubtless be leaving us. As soon as 
Inspector Duveen gets here . . .” 

“Explained?” Steve asked, surprised. 

“Certainly. There was never any great mystery about 
it, in spite of the stupidity of the police. Here!” Senator 
Kirby tossed a morning paper across the desk. “Sit 
down. And read this. I will talk to you further, when 
the Inspector arrives.” 

Steve took a chair by the window, glanced at the two- 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


155 


column head. “Actor Takes Life in Theatre!” “Suicide 
of Well-Known Leading Man!” “It is believed that the 
death of Lawrence Dane, prominent member of a local 
stock company, was the direct result of a dose of poison, 
self-administered in his dressing room, at an early hour 
last evening . . 

On and on. Columns of it, embellished with photo¬ 
graphs, diagrams and other “art work,” sprinkled with 
cautious libel-avoiding phrases, such as “we are in¬ 
formed,” or “the police think,” but not, Steve noticed, 
containing one line or word to connect Lawrence Dane’s 
death with the murder of Mrs. Kirby. Someone must 
have used influence, powerful influence, to accomplish 
that. Unless, of course, Inspector Duveen was merely 
playing safe, pending the outcome of his night’s work? 
But why had Kirby said the case was solved? 

The arrival of the Inspector himself put an end to 
such speculations; he seemed both tired, and out of sorts. 
Nor did the Senator’s manner, rude to the point of hos¬ 
tility, improve his temper. 

“I should like to know,” Kirby said, “the full details 
regarding this fellow Dane’s death.” 

Duveen flushed under his tan. 

“I am not in the habit, Senator Kirby,” he said, “of 
discussing the work of my department with outsiders.” 
His eyes, very blue and steady in spite of his fatigue, 
flicked momentarily toward Steve. 

If the Senator noticed it he concealed the fact. Frown¬ 
ing, he stared across the desk. 

“Sit down, Inspector,” he said, keying his voice as 




156 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


usual to an imaginary microphone, “and listen to me. I 
want Mr. Ransom, as well, to hear what I have to say, 
since he has shown such unwarranted interest in my 
affairs. Mrs. Kirby was brutally murdered, in my opin¬ 
ion, by this fellow Dane. It should have been your opin¬ 
ion as well, if you had shown proper intelligence in han¬ 
dling the case. However, that is not my purpose in calling 
you here. If Dane killed my wife, he is dead, and that’s 
the end of it. No good can be served by dragging Mrs. 
Kirby’s name into the case. On the contrary, it will 
cause much harm. Both to myself and to my daughter. 
It is the duty of the police to punish the guilty, not the in¬ 
nocent. Certainly it is no part of their work, to serve 
a venal, sensation-loving press!” Senator Kirby raised 
his hand in a gesture not unknown to an admiring public. 
“Inspector Duveen,” he went on, “and this applies to 
you as well, young man, if this actor, Dane, did kill 
himself, if the evidence points to suicide, I want the 
matter to rest there. His reasons, his fear of being charged 
with the murder of Mrs. Kirby, must not be brought 
out! Now tell me the facts!” 

Inspector Duveen crooked his lone trigger-finger; it 
was a characteristic gesture whenever he was powerfully 
disturbed. 

“Before I answer you, Senator,” he said, “tell me why 
you feel so sure Dane murdered your wife?” 

“Because he wrote me two letters. Sly, very polite 
letters, saying he wanted to see me. About a certain 
proposition. A financial proposition, in which I could 
not fail to be interested.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


157 


“You have those letters?” 

“No. I decided the fellow was trying to blackmail 
me and threw them into the fire!” 

The Inspector sighed. He seemed dejected. 

“Is that all?” he asked. Senator Kirby, however, re¬ 
fused to be drawn; he countered with another question. 

“Why ask me?” he said sharply. “You know what 
case you had against him. Did he commit suicide or did 
he not? We gain nothing by arguing.” 

Duveen stopped crooking his finger; his mind seemed 
made up. 

“Lawrence Dane,” he announced, “was found in his 
dressing room, dead. From a dose of aconitine. It is the 
swiftest and deadliest poison known. There was none, in 
the whiskey bottle. None, in the soda. Traces, strong 
traces, were found in the bottom of his glass. The call 
boy who brought him the soda swears Dane had be¬ 
gun to drink the highball when he . . . the boy . . . 
went out, closed the door. Aconitine acts so quickly 
that if anyone else had gone into the room after the 
boy left, they would have found Dane either dying, or 
dead.” 

“But suppose,” Steve interrupted, “there wasn’t any 
poison in the first drink, and somebody came in and 
doctored a second one?” 

“No.” The Inspector shook his head. Mournfully. 
“There wasn’t any second drink. Only enough soda had 
been poured out to fix one. We’ve checked that. As for 
fingerprints, some smudges on the whiskey bottle; 
Dane’s clearer, on the glass. The call boy’s on the soda 




158 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


. . . under Dane’s. Also the fellow’s across the street 
who sold the bottle. No others.” 

“It’s quite evident what happened?” Senator Kirby 
growled. “Suicide!” 

“I can’t figure it but one way, either,” Duveen said. 
“Dane must have put that poison in the glass himself. 
Either when he was over at the basin, washing it, or after 
the call boy left the room.” 

The Senator nodded. His ill-nature had largely dis¬ 
appeared. 

“I am glad, Inspector,” he announced, “to see that you 
have reached so sensible and logical a conclusion. Let 
the newspapers, the public, suppose that Dane com¬ 
mitted suicide because of an unhappy love affair. Let 
them suppose what they please. But do not destroy my 
usefulness as a public servant, blacken my dead wife’s 
name, and ruin my daughter’s future, her social career, 
by publishing to the world . . .” 

“I’m not in the publishing business, Senator,” Duveen 
interrupted dryly. “If Dane hadn’t killed himself I’d 
have arrested him this morning for the murder of your 
wife. Long as I can’t do that now, the evidence I had 
against him stays in the Department’s files.” 

“Thank you, Inspector! I won’t forget it!” The Sena¬ 
tor got up, was about to put out his hand. Duveen went 
on speaking. 

“But if I find that Dane did not kill himself,” he con¬ 
tinued, “or the evidence I’ve got points to somebody 
else, I’m going to act on it, and you, or the President him¬ 
self won’t stop me. That is, as long as I’m head of the 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


159 


Detective Bureau, anyway! Don’t forget the newspapers 
will be hammering me for a solution of your wife’s 
murder and sooner or later I’ve got to give them one!” 
He nodded to Steve. “I can’t be responsible for what 
Mr. Ranson may say, or do; if he has any information 
about Dane, or your wife, it didn’t come from me.” 

Steve stepped forward, his lips tightening. 

“Whatever I know, Senator Kirby,” he said, “I shall 
certainly not give it to the newspapers. Nor to anyone, 
except Inspector Duveen. If I’ve tried to discover who 
committed the murder, it’s only because I was dragged, 
quite accidentally, into the case. Under the circum¬ 
stances, I’d better leave the house!” 

“You are at liberty to stay, Mr. Ransom,” the Senator 
put in hastily, “as long as you wish. I know you to be 
a gentleman, and . . 

“Only till after the inquest this afternoon.” Duveen 
gave Steve a small, unnoticed wink. “And all he’ll have 
to say then will be what he found, when he walked into 
that room the other night. Witnesses at inquests give 
facts, not opinions; I’m sure Mr. Ransom can be trusted 
to keep his to himself.” 

Senator Kirby nodded. Steve and the Inspector went 
out. 

At the front door they paused. Duveen was grinning, 
not mirthfully. 

“Damned old hypocrite!” he muttered under his 
breath. 

“Going in town?” Steve asked. 

“Yep. A little office work. Why?” 




i6o 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I’ve got an idea. Need your help to carry it out. Also, 
I want to take Miss Vickery along to lunch. So I thought 
if you had your car, we’d drive in with you; I’ll bring her 
back in a cab.” 

“What’s this idea you’re talking about?” 

“I want to stop at Dane’s room, in the Piedmont for 
a minute. I know your men will be on the job there, 
and without your authority wouldn’t let me in. So if you 
don’t mind fixing it . . .” 

“Still trying to help us poor dicks out, are you?” the 
Inspector grumbled, but there was humor in his eye. 
“All right, young fellow . . . get your girl; that will 
make it easier for me to keep an eye on both of you.” 

“Thanks,” Steve said, and went in search of Ann. He 
found her in the garden, gathering narcissus. She was, 
he thought, even more fresh and lovely than the pale, 
unusual flowers. 

“Good morning, Little Red Riding Hood,” she 
grinned. 

“Morning, beautiful!” Steve squeezed her fingers. 

“Still looking for that kiss?” 

“And that corner. It’s a long road, you know, that 
hasn’t one or two. Get your hat; we’re going to do a 
little high-class sleuthing.” 

Ann ran up the stairs, came down again, wearing the 
bunch of flowers at her waist. The Inspector, noticing 
her eagerness, chuckled. 

“Anyway, Miss Vickery,” he said, “you’re going to give 
the newsreel boys and camera men a thrill; there’s a mob 
of them just outside.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


161 


They ran the gantlet of clicking cameras, the Inspector 
growling his stereotyped “Nothing new.” In the police 
car he became more communicative. 

“Keen as buzzards!” he exclaimed, giving Steve a 
broad wink. “Must be some kind of a sixth sense, the 
way those birds can smell scandal a mile off; I don’t 
wonder the old boy is feeling jumpy.” 

“You’ve heard of a certain Mrs. Mitchell, I suppose?” 
Steve asked. “Known as ‘Babs?’ ” 

Duveen tried to assume his poker face, gave it up 
under the influence of Steve’s smile. 

“Maybe,” he growled. “Why?” 

“Did you know she was in a box at the theatre last 
night? With Luke Reed?” 

“How did you know it?” 

“Dr. Badouine and I stood back for a while, watching 
the finish of the second act.” 

“So what?” 

“Nothing . . . yet. But being in show business myself, 
and at least able to find my way about a theatre, I can’t 
help thinking how easy it is to get back stage from a 
box. Especially a box that happens to be right alongside 
the connecting door from the front of the house, which 
this one was. It may not mean anything, but then again, 
it might.” 

“How? Dane, according to the evidence, was alone 
when he took that drink, soon as he got to his room, at 
ten-twenty—” 

“Ten-nineteen, to be exact, when he left the stage,” 
Steve interrupted. “I timed it.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


162 

“Well?” 

“Well, Dr. Badouine and I showed up seven or eight 
minutes later; I didn’t time that, but I stopped to 
smoke a cirgarette. Thought we’d give Dane a chance 
to get his make-up off. If he sent the call boy for the 
soda as soon as he left the stage, he could have had it in 
two minutes . . . three at the outside; you remember he 
told the boy to hurry. Allow another minute for open¬ 
ing the bottle, mixing the drink, that makes four, and 
gives us an interval of four or five minutes, during which 
a lot of people might have gone into his dressing room.” 

“And found him dead,” the Inspector grunted, not 
much interested. “So what?” 

Steve continued to smile. Hopefully. 

“That’s where my idea comes in,” he said. “It’s prob¬ 
ably a dud, but I’d like to find out. If it doesn’t work, 
there’s no harm done and I can probably use the thing 
in my next detective play.” 

“I hope you don’t put me in it.” Ann laughed. “Look 
what happened, the last time you mixed me up in one 
of your interesting plots.” 

“May be the best thing that ever happened to you, 
angel,” Steve grinned at her, lighting a cigarette. “To 
either of us. I’m hoping, before the show is over, to make 
you see it that way.” 

Duveen was scowling; there was no humor in his cool 
blue eyes. 

“What are you getting at, young fellow?” he snapped. 
“Spill it.” 

“Well, to start with, you say you knew Senator Kirby’s 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


163 


lady friend, Mrs. Mitchell, was in a box at the theatre 
with Luke Reed last night?” 

“Sure I knew it. Same as I knew you and Dr. Bad- 
ouine were there. What do you think I’ve been doing, 
taking a rest cure? Come again.” 

“All right. Here’s another one. Did you know Mrs. 
Mitchell was among those present at de Zara’s studio 
party, the night that photograph was snitched?” 

This time the Inspector’s dead-pan mask went com¬ 
pletely to pieces; he had been up the better part of two 
nights and had lost a great deal of sleep. 

“The hell she was!” he muttered. “I had that party 
checked . . . didn’t get her name.” 

“I guess she wasn’t using it, on the Senator’s account. 
Posed as a friend of Luke Reed’s. What’s more, she 
showed a particular interest in de Zara’s gold-inlaid 
souvenir box. Wanted to buy it, I understand. That 
gave her an excuse to examine the thing. Possibly, to 
steal the photograph.” 

“How did you find this out?” Duveen seemed hugely 
annoyed. 

“Just luck,” Steve said. “Gossip. The female of the 
species, you know, very deadly.” He was thinking of 
Mrs. Conover. “You might try what I’ve just told you 
on your adding machine . . . along with the fact that 
girls will be girls, and some of them, if they can’t get a 
man one way might try another, even blackmail . . . 
murder ... to remove an obstacle from the road to 
happiness. You know . . . everything for love . . . and 
a fat bank account.” 



164 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Duveen frowned, shaking his head. 

“If you mean Mrs. Mitchell might have murdered Mrs. 
Kirby,” he said, “I’ve been all over that. So far, no po¬ 
tatoes. Dane was my man. I think he stole the picture 
himself. We know he wrote a letter to Mrs. Kirby that 
somebody burned . . . tried to at least.” 

“You don’t think it possible, then, that the Mitchell 
woman stole the picture, that Dane saw her do it and 
was killed before he could spill the beans?” 

“Certainly it’s possible she took the picture out of that 
box. But she didn’t murder Dane. Nobody did. He 
killed himself. The evidence proves it, beyond any ques¬ 
tion.” 

“I know it does,” Steve said, as the car drew up in 
front of the Piedmont Hotel. “No need of your going 
up to the room with me, Inspector, unless you want to. 
Just tip off one of your dicks; I shan’t be a minute.” 

Duveen crooked his finger at a plainclothes man 
lounging near the hotel door. 

“This is Mr. Ransom, Len,” he said. “Take him to 
Dane’s room. The boys got anything up there yet?” 

“Not a thing, Chief, Ryan tells me, except a bunch of 
unpaid bills, and a flock of empty bottles in the clothes’ 
closet.” 

Steve got out of the car. 

“If it’s all the same to you, Inspector,” he said, “I’ll 
bring back a couple of those empties.” 

“Go as far as you like,” Duveen remarked sourly. “But 
if you’re thinking about fingerprints, you’re wasting 
your time.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


165 


Ann lit a cigarette, sat staring at the smoke from it. 
She was thinking that the spring sunshine was very warm 
and pleasant, and contemplating the curious design of 
life, which made use of death, of murder, to bring two 
people like Steve and herself together, ready to start 
another series of whorls in the intricate and ever-chang¬ 
ing pattern. At least she felt ready. As for Steve . . . 

He came back carrying a package wrapped in news¬ 
paper under his arm. 

“All set,” he said, climbing into the car. 

“What do you expect to do with bottles?” The In¬ 
spector was smiling, but there was a cold, professional 
gleam in his eye. 

“Wouldn’t want me to give away the show in advance, 
would you?” Steve grinned. “Especially as I’m not at 
all sure there’s going to be any show. Ten to one my 
little experiment won’t work. When we get to your 
office . . 

“May I come?” Ann asked. 

“Of course, if the Inspector doesn’t object. It always 
helps, to have an appreciative audience.” 

Duveen nodded. When they reached Police Head¬ 
quarters he brushed a maze of questions, of messages 
aside, went to his private office. 

“Get going, young fellow!” he said sharply. “And 
make it snappy, I’ve got work to do!” He waved to 
chairs, sat down. 

Steve unwrapped his package, placed the two empty 
bottles on the Inspector’s desk. Ann, watching his hands, 
saw that they were shaking. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


166 

“You found a pocket knife on Dane’s body, didn’t 
you?” he asked, eagerly. 

“Not on his body . . . the make-up shelf. With his 
money and keys.” 

“I’ll want that. And the bottle of Scotch he took his 
last drink from.” 

The Inspector spoke into a desk telephone. Steve was 
staring at the two empty bottles. 

“Dane always drank White Label,” he said to Ann. 

“I’ll have those things here in a couple of minutes.” 
Duveen swung around in his swivel chair. “Maybe I’m 
thick, but I don’t just see what you’re driving at.” 

“Well,” Steve said, “it’s merely an idea. I can’t say, 
yet, whether it will work. But you admit, don’t you, 
that Dane was drinking the poisoned liquor when the 
call boy left him . . . five or six minutes before Dr. 
Badouine and I arrived on the scene?” 

“Sure. And from what the Medical Examiner tells me, 
about the effects of aconitine, he was probably dead by 
the time the boy reached the foot of the stairs.” 

“Exactly. So of course it would have been easy enough 
for anybody to have gone into his dressing room, during 
that five or six minutes, after the call boy left? Any¬ 
body sitting in a box, for instance, very close to the door 
leading back stage.” 

“What for? It doesn’t make sense. Dane was already 
dead.” 

“I know. But just the same, let me put off telling 
you my ideas about that until I see how my little ex¬ 
periment works out.” Steve turned as a young man came 







DESIGN FOR MURDER 


167 


into the room; he carried a nearly-filled bottle of whiskey 
in one hand, a silver pocket knife at the end of a key- 
chain, in the other. 

“This stuff has been gone over, Chief,” he said, plac¬ 
ing the bottle, the knife, on Duveen’s desk. “You’ve 
seen the report.” 

“Thanks, Marty.” The Inspector watched the young 
man go out. “Well?” he went on impatiently, when the 
door had closed. “I’m waiting.” 

Steve took up the knife, pulled out the small cork¬ 
screw hinged to the back of it. 

“Dane always carried this,” he said. “A relic of pre¬ 
prohibition days.” He took up one of the bottles he 
had brought from the hotel, inserted the sharp point of 
the corkscrew into the hole which showed at the top of 
the cork. “You’ll notice,” he went on, turning the knife 
slowly around, “that it goes right in. Easily. No effort 
required. . . .” 

“Why wouldn’t it?” the Inspector grumbled. “Noth¬ 
ing surprising about that, the hole’s already there.” 

“Exactly.” Steve had withdrawn the corkscrew from 
the first bottle, was repeating his experiment with the sec¬ 
ond. “That’s just the point. Fits this one, too. Now, 
Inspector, try it on the bottle found in Dane’s dressing 
room.” He handed the knife to Duveen. “If I’m right in 
my guess as to what happened, you’ll score a miss.” 

Using his left hand, the Inspector threaded the point 
of the corkscrew into the tiny hole at the top of the cork, 
turned the knife around, as Steve had done a moment 
before. Nothing happened; the screw refused to advance. 





168 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Don’t force it!” Steve cautioned, touching Duveen’s 
arm. “Looks as if I was right! Wait a minute!” He 
took a penknife from his pocket, removed the cork from 
one of the empty bottles, sliced it cleanly down the 
middle. “There! You see?” He held the half of the 
cork under Inspector Duveen’s eyes. A series of small, 
dark openings, staggered alternately right and left made 
a pattern on the smooth cut face of it. “Notice how 
close together the holes are ? That’s because Dane’s 
pocket corkscrew hasn’t much distance between its turns 
. . . much pitch! Now cut the other cork in half . . . 
the one from the bottle found in his dressing room!” 
Steve watched the Inspector eagerly as he sliced the sec¬ 
ond cork in two. “Look at that! The holes are a lot 
further apart! Which shows the bottle wasn’t opened 
with Dane’s corkscrew! Yet there it was, right on the 
make-up shelf at his elbow! Why didn’t he use it?” 

“Why ?” Ann whispered, breathless. 

“Because,” Steve said quickly, “he didn’t open the 
bottle.” 

Inspector Duveen, sitting very straight in his chair, 
crashed an incomplete fist on the desk-top. 

“By God and little fishes, Son!” he shouted. “You’ve 
got it! They switched bottles on us! After he was dead!” 

“Right!” Steve was grinning. “Somebody must have 
gone into Dane’s dressing room during the second act, 
while he was on stage, and poisoned his whiskey! And 
then, after he’d passed out from drinking a slug of it, 
they came back to the room, took away the poisoned 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


169 


bottle and left a good one, this one, in its place. To make 
his death look like suicide! When all the time . . 

“When all the time,” Duveen interrupted harshly, 
“he’d been bumped off . . . murdered! Probably by the 
same smart guy that did for Mrs. Kirby!” For a mo¬ 
ment the Inspector sat glowering at the whiskey bottles 
in front of him. Suddenly he put out his hand. “Mr. 
Ransom,” he said. “I’m obliged to you. That was nice 
work!” 

“Just a lucky 
have them.” He 


hunch,” Steve grinned. “I sometimes 
glanced at Ann. 




XVIII 


Ann Vickery leaned forward in her chair; the sudden 
turn of events had left her a bit confused. 

“I don’t quite see . . she began. 

“It’s like this, miss.” The Inspector ticked off the 
points on the fingers of his good hand. “No poison 
found in the whiskey bottle! None, in the soda! Aconi¬ 
tine, very deadly, in a glass that had just been washed 
clean! Suicide, of course! No other conclusion possible, 
since nobody could have put the poison in his glass but 
himself! Well, he did put it there, without knowing it! 
Only the bottle he poured it from was later taken away, 
and another, quite harmless, left in its place! Clever, 
all right, damned clever!” 

“But when?” 

“During the four or five minutes between the time he 
was murdered, and the discovery of the body by Dr. 
Badouine and Mr. Ransom.” 

“You’d think,” Ann objected, “that whoever did it 
would have been seen carrying the good bottle in, tak¬ 
ing the poisoned one away.” 

“They aren’t quarts.” Steve waved toward the desk. 
“Fifth. Smaller! Look!” He snatched up one of the 

170 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


III 

slender bottles, slipped it into his trousers pocket. “Easy 
enough. Only the neck shows. And that would be 
covered by a coat. Especially a woman’s coat. I’ll bet 
right now a woman went into that dressing room during 
the evening . . 

Duveen was juggling the bits of cut cork. 

“What gave you the idea?” he said. 

“Something you told Senator Kirby this morning,” 
Steve replied. “You said you didn’t get clear prints of 
Dane’s fingers, on the whiskey bottle, although you did, 
on the glass and the bottle of soda.” 

“Right,” the Inspector nodded. “The way I figured it, 
his fingers slipped a little when he put down the bottle 
. . . blurred the prints. Likely to happen, when you 
don’t get a firm grip . . . and I knew Dane’s hands 
would have cold cream on them. I ought to have paid 
more attention to those smudges,” he added morosely. 

“I got to thinking it over,” Steve went on, “and the 
idea came into my head that maybe the bottle had been 
handled with gloves. If so . . . why? Perhaps I’m just 
naturally curious. Also I remembered seeing Dane open 
a bottle of Scotch with that pocket corkscrew of his, 
when I was in his room at the hotel. So I figured that 
if the bottles had been switched the corks ought to show 
it, since the bottle brought in to replace the poisoned one 
would have had to be opened in advance . . . some of 
the whiskey poured out. Dane, you remember, wasn’t 
drinking from a full bottle. The murderer probably 
dumped the excess whiskey into the wash-basin. I no¬ 
ticed a strong smell of alcohol in the room . . . spoke 




172 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


to your man about it, Inspector, at the time. The only 
mistake our killer made was not thinking of the cork.” 

“The best of them slip up somewhere,” Duveen 
growled. “I suppose, because Dane knew too much, he 
had to be got rid of in a hurry. That half-charred note 
to Mrs. Kirby we found in the fireplace was probably 
about the Cannes photograph. Had just a couple of 
legible words, and his signature on it. I figured Dane 
had been there, quarrelled with her over the amount 
he was to get, killed her. Thrown the card in the fire. 
He’d have been arrested, this morning, if the murderer 
hadn’t got ahead of me, last night. Now I’ve got to 
start all over again.” 

“If we knew who stole that picture from de Zara’s 
apartment . . Steve began. 

“Wouldn’t prove anything.” Duveen said irritably. 
“Whoever took the snapshot could have turned it over 
to somebody else. Somebody like Senator Kirby,” he 
added, frowning. “Far as that goes, we don’t even 
know it was taken, the night of the party. The lock 
of that box could have been picked any time, by a smart 
crook. Haven’t any proof, in fact, it was stolen at all; 
that’s the Count’s story but how do we know he isn’t 
lying? Pretty neat, if he carried that photograph to 
Mrs. Kirby’s house himself. The maid, Georgette, gives 
him an alibi, but she hasn’t said anything, so far, about 
Miss Kirby being there with the two of them, on the 
night of the murder.” 

“There are the pearls,” Steve suggested. 

“Don’t mean a thing! That phony set may have been 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


173 


planted, or Mrs. Kirby may have had them on when 
the murderer choked her. No way to tell which. Same 
with the hairs she had in her fingers. They show she 
grabbed at somebody wearing a wig, but whether it was 
a man or a woman, light or dark, we haven’t any idea. 
Same way with the rest of the clues. The pen-holder 
proves nothing ... it was wiped clean. We don’t know 
why that china plaque that hid the wall safe was swung 
open, or who opened it. Even the papers that were 
torn, burned, don’t prove who burned them, or why. 
Or how those figures of yours, Mr. Ransom, happened 
to be destroyed along with the rest. Unless you’re 
guilty, it doesn’t make sense.” 

“No,” Steve said. “It doesn’t. I’ve been wondering 
about that call boy. What was he doing, during those 
five or six minutes?” 

“Chinning with one of the stage hands,” Duveen re¬ 
plied. “I’ve been into all that. Says he was, at any rate, 
and the other guy backs him up. Except he isn’t ex¬ 
actly sure about the time.” 

“Well, here’s one thing that might have happened. Say 
somebody . . . some woman . . . went to Dane’s dress¬ 
ing room during the second act and poisoned his whiskey. 
Carried the aconitine in a small vial in her purse. No 
need for her to come back; the call boy, or anybody 
else . . . even some member of the company . . . might 
have been bribed to slip into Dane’s room with a good 
bottle of whiskey . . . take away the poisoned one . . .” 

Duveen threw up his hands. 

“Hell and high water!” he exclaimed. “Anything is 



174 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


possible in this case! It’s cockeyed! I’ve been over the 
evidence a hundred times and I can’t get the answer.” 

“Maybe Senator Kirby can supply it,” Steve said. 

“Maybe! Or Luke Reed! Or this Mitchell dame! 
Looks bad for all three of them. Plenty of motive! 
Plenty of money! No satisfactory alibi ... at least not 
yet. But when it comes to accusing United States senators 
of little things like murder you’ve got to watch your 
step . . . can’t go at them with a piece of rubber hose!” 
One of the telephone instruments on the desk began to 
ring furiously. Duveen picked it up. “You folks run 
along,” he said. “I’ve got a lot to do, now. Thanks for 
your help, Mr. Ransom; don’t forget the inquest’s at 
three-thirty.” 

Ann was very quiet all the way to the street. 

“Just time,” Steve said, looking at his watch, “to take 
a look at the cherry blossoms before we have lunch.” 
He waved to a cab. “How about it, sweetness?” 

“Fine,” Ann nodded, and resumed her thinking. Ten 
minutes later she asked a question. 

“At what time,” she said slowly, “do you suppose 
this mysterious woman went to Mr. Dane’s dressing 
room and poisoned his whiskey?” 

“During the second act, I figure. While he was on 
stage. Around nine-thirty, say. Why?” 

“Soon after we finished dinner last night.” 

“Skip it, honey!” Steve exclaimed. “I can swear you 
never went near the theatre, if that’s what is on your 
mind.” 

“It’s only a few blocks from the hotel.” 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


175 


“So what?” 

“The woman with de Zara! And he had a bottle under 
his arm ...” 

“Good God!” Steve muttered. “Why didn’t you say 
that to the Inspector ? It’s a natural. . . .” 

“Better to wait.” Ann’s eyes were very tender. “You 
see, there’s Jean.” 




XIX 


Inspector Duveen rang the bell of the house on Con¬ 
necticut Avenue, asked to see Judge Tyson. 

The old gentleman maintained no law office in Wash¬ 
ington; his home was on the Eastern Shore of Mary¬ 
land. When the affairs of a few special clients required 
his presence in the city he stopped at the home of a 
married niece. 

The Inspector, waiting in the smartly-appointed draw¬ 
ing room, was far from sure the Judge would see him. 
As Mrs. Kirby’s personal counsel he might well decide 
to stand on his rights and refuse to be questioned. Still, 
there was a chance. 

To Duveen’s surprise the old gentleman appeared at 
once, beaming like an amiable and benevolent cherub. 

“Good morning, Duveen,” he said. “Sit down. And 
tell me what I can do for you.” 

The Inspector sank into a chair, not hopeful. Expe¬ 
rience had taught him that such outward geniality was 
apt to prove more impenetrable than other and less subtle 
forms of armor. 

“You’ve read of Lawrence Dane’s death, no doubt?” 
he began. 


176 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


177 


“Yes.” The Judge raised his eyebrow. “Suicide, I un¬ 
derstand.” 

“No,” Duveen said. “Murder.” He spoke almost care¬ 
lessly, watching the old gentleman’s face for some change 
of expression. None came. 

“Really?” The Judge inquired, fiddling with his nose- 
glasses. “I can’t say I’m surprised.” 

“Why not?” Inspector Duveen snapped the question 
almost viciously. 

“I imagine he knew too much.” 

This was precisely the turn in the conversation for 
which Duveen had been hoping. 

“Too much about what?” 

“About Mrs. Kirby’s affairs. And the Senator’s . . .” 

“Why do you say that?” 

The Judge’s geniality vanished. His round, rosy face 
no longer suggested a cherub, amiable or otherwise. 

“You realize, Inspector,” he said coldly, “that I am 
under no obligation to answer your questions. Nor is it 
my habit to discuss my clients’ affairs in public. If I do 
so now, it is solely in the interests of justice.” 

“Of course.” Duveen nodded. “I understand.” 

“Very well. Upon that basis, I will explain my state¬ 
ment. On the day of her death Mrs. Kirby received a 
letter from this man Dane requesting an interview. I 
was at the house, attending a luncheon party. When 
it was over she showed me the letter. Although couched 
in cautious terms, it seemed to me that an invitation 
to blackmail could be read between the lines. Mrs. 
Kirby asked my advice and I told her to pay no attention 



i7» 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


to the letter, that once in the clutches of a man of that 
sort it would be impossible to get out. As a result, she 
tore the card in two . . . the note had been written on 
an ordinary correspondence card . . . and threw the 
pieces into the fire, along with some other papers.” 

“Yes,” Duveen said. “I found one of the halves, badly 
charred, against the brickwork. Have you any idea what 
the information was that Dane proposed to sell?” 

The Judge paused for a moment, considering. 

“To answer your question,” he said, “I am obliged to 
tell you something of Mrs. Kirby’s domestic affairs. 
Her husband had for months been trying to force her 
to give him a divorce in order that he might marry again. 
She refused. I suspect this man Dane had some informa¬ 
tion regarding Senator Kirby and the woman in the case 
which might have been of value to Mrs. Kirby in op¬ 
posing divorce proceedings . . .” 

“Not about the Cannes photograph, then?” 

“The Cannes photograph?” Duveen’s question jarred 
the Judge from his smooth complacency. “You know 
of that?” 

“Certainly. The matter has been kept from the news¬ 
papers, but we found the picture under Mrs. Kirby’s 
head.” 

“Dear me!” The old gentleman put on his nose- 
glasses, took them off again. “This is a surprise. I 
thought de Zara . . .” 

“Count de Zara claims the photograph was stolen from 
him during a party he gave at his studio not long ago. 
You were there.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


179 


“And so,” the Judge added hastily, “was Lawrence 
Dane. He could have taken the picture.” 

“I thought that too . . . thought he had killed Mrs. 
Kirby . . . until I found he’d been murdered himself! 
Now I figure he knew who did take it.” 

“Just so, just so!” Judge Tyson sat with his eyes 
half-closed, thinking rapidly. “Is it your idea, Inspector, 
that I stole that photograph? On Mrs. Kirby’s account? 
To prevent her husband from securing it . . . using it 
against her in divorce proceedings?” 

“No.” Duveen felt now that he had secured the 
upper hand; his opponent was on the defensive. “I 
make no such accusation. My hope was that having been 
present, you might have some idea who did!” 

“Of course! I see your point. This is a great surprise 
to me. I wondered at the time why not only Senator 
Kirby, but Mrs. Mitchell and Luke Reed were at that 
party. No reason why the Senator shouldn’t have been 
there; he has never opposed his daughter’s marriage to 
de Zara. But to bring Mrs. Mitchell along! Rather bad 
taste, I thought, even at a bohemian affair. Now I begin 
to understand! If she got hold of the picture, think 
what a weapon it would have been, in her hands and 
the Senator’s!” 

“Am I then to understand that Mrs. Mitchell is the 
woman Senator Kirby intends to marry?” the Inspector 
asked. 

“Of course. I supposed you knew that.” 

“I’d heard so.” Duveen smiled, frostily. “Glad to have 
your confirmation. What can you tell me about the 



i8o 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


lady? As Mrs. Kirby’s attorney I assume you’ve had 
her looked up.” 

“Yes. Thoroughly. She began as a dancer, in Broad¬ 
way musical shows. Married at eighteen ... a college 
boy . . . divorced him in ’29, when his father lost all 
his money. Six months later she married again—a wealthy 
horse owner and racing man, Andy Mitchell. You may 
have heard of him. Like most gamblers he is always 
winning fortunes, then losing them. She divorced him 
during one of his losing streaks. Now she is looking 
for a third victim.” 

“Has Senator Kirby any money?” 

“Oh, yes. Mines, timber, in the south-west. No such 
fortune as his wife possessed, but . . . ample.” 

“Why should he want to marry Mrs. Mitchell?” 

The Judge chuckled. Grimly. He was a bachelor. 

“Why should any man want to marry any woman?” 
he asked. “Senator Kirby is over fifty. I suppose he im¬ 
agines himself in love. It isn’t difficult, at his age, to 
develop that illusion . . . especially when in the hands 
of a clever woman.” 

“You think Mrs. Mitchell is clever, then?” 

“She must be, to make a man willing to leave a wife 
worth twenty millions. Clever, and unscrupulous, since 
she deliberately set out to break up Mrs. Kirby’s home.” 

“Unscrupulous enough to commit murder, do you 
think? In order to get what she was after?” 

The Judge shrugged, shaking his head. 

“Other women have. I cannot speak for Mrs. Mitch¬ 
ell.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


181 


Duveen sat staring at his lone forefinger. He had 
succeeded in doing what he had come to do . . . had 
made the old gentleman talk. 

“Has it occurred to you, Judge Tyson,” he said, “that 
if Mrs. Mitchell did steal that photograph she may have 
come to Halfway House the other night, threatened to 
make use of it, unless Mrs. Kirby agreed to divorce her 
husband? We know Mrs. Kirby received a secret visitor, 
a woman, according to all accounts, shortly before she 
was killed.” 

“No.” The Judge sat nodding his head, like a plump 
Chinese figurine. “Such a thought did not occur to me, 
since I did not know, until you told me just now, that 
the picture had been found at the scene of the murder. 
Since you say it was, I am quite prepared to believe what 
you suggest.” 

Inspector Duveen gazed at the floor. At last the pic¬ 
ture was becoming clearer . . . the various clues were 
beginning to fit into place. A determined, unscrupulous 
woman. Glimpsing the snapshot in de Zara’s souvenir 
box, stealing it. An ex-actress, familiar with the use of 
make-up, wigs. Disguising herself, not on Mrs. Kirby’s 
account, but to avoid recognition by the servants. Mrs. 
Kirby, knowing in advance of the visit, providing her¬ 
self with a large sum in untraceable bonds, hoping to 
buy the photograph, buy her visitor off. Exposing 
the wall safe to get at the money . . . not opening it, 
because her offer had been rejected. A furious quarrel 
between the two women . . . Mrs. Kirby choked . . . 
her string of pearls broken, scattered on the floor . . . 




182 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


picked up, under the supposition that they were real 
. . . tossed into the flower vase as soon as it was dis¬ 
covered they were not! Murder, with the first weapon 
at hand, to avoid subsequent accusation, disgrace! The 
hands of the clock turned forward to make it strike 
twelve, so that if Mrs. Kirby’s voice had been overheard 
by anyone in the house, she would appear to have been 
alive at midnight. A quick escape, then, to join some¬ 
one else . . . Senator Kirby, perhaps, or Luke Reed, 
and thus establish an alibi for that hour. Leaving the 
photograph behind to throw suspicion on de Zara. Or, 
in her excitement, forgetting it. A telephone message 
from Dane the next day, saying that he had witnessed 
the theft of the picture. Ample motive, there, for the 
actor’s murder. Mrs. Mitchell in a box at the theatre 
. . . hurrying back stage to poison his liquor . . . learn¬ 
ing, then, the kind of whiskey needed to replace it. 
Luke Reed, perhaps, sent to buy the necessary bottle. 
The two bottles switched, possibly with the connivance 
of the call boy. Everything seemed to fit, the Inspector 
thought, everything but Mrs. Kirby’s cry about a nail. 
Most likely she had said “blackmail.” 

Judge Tyson interrupted his train of thought. 

“Have you questioned Mrs. Mitchell?” he asked. 

“No.” Duveen got up. “I wanted to talk to you 
first. The information you’ve given me will help.” 

The old gentleman was once more the shrewd, cau¬ 
tious lawyer, dignified, reserved. 

“I have spoken rather freely,” he said. “Too freely, 
perhaps. I ask that you do not quote me, otherwise I 
shall be obliged to deny any statements you make.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER_183 

Duveen nodded, took his leave, feeling, subconsciously, 

that Judge Tyson had been rather anxious to throw 
blame for the murder on Mrs. Mitchell. Well, perhaps 
that was natural; he had been Mrs. Kirby’s friend. It 
would be possible to tell better, the Inspector thought, 
after he had talked to the woman. 

The small house in Georgetown was very gay, with its 
peacock blue door and shutters, its flower-filled window 
boxes. A trim mulatto maid asked him to wait in the 

parlor . . . Duveen smiled at the word . . . while she 

took up his name. 

He did not have to wait long. Mrs. Mitchell appeared 
almost at once, very smart in a brown afternoon frock; 
she wore a hat and was apparently dressed to go out. 

“I’ve only a moment,” she said, taking his hand. “On 
my way to lunch. I know who you are, of course. Well, 
any questions you’d like to ask . . .” 

Duveen looked at her, surprised. Rather larger than 
the average . . . big boned. Like an English woman, he 
thought. Her handshake had been muscular, firm. A 
strong, hard hand, for managing horses . . . he’d heard 
she had ridden a good deal, after marrying Andy 
Mitchell. Or for gripping other women’s throats! Some¬ 
how Duveen found difficulty in imagining it, in spite 
of his array of clues. Mrs. Mitchell seemed unusually 
frank and open in manner. A man’s woman. Hand¬ 
some, rather than pretty. Crinkly, honey-colored hair. 
Hazel-green eyes, large and attractive. He pulled him¬ 
self together with a laugh, remembering what the Judge 
had said about men in the hands of clever women. 

“Mrs. Mitchell,” he began, “I’m not going to keep 





184 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


you long. Certain questions, you understand ... a mat¬ 
ter of routine. You were at the theatre last night, I 
believe?” 

“Of course. With Mr. Reed. And two friends of his, 
a Mr. and Mrs. Green, from Richmond. Why? Is it 
about that man Dane’s suicide?” 

“In a way, yes. You knew him, I understand.” 

“I’d met him. Once. At Count de Zara’s apartment.” 

“Did you see him last night?” 

“Certainly. He was in the play.” 

“I mean personally.” 

“No. I should have had no reason to talk to him . . . 
to go back stage.” 

“Did you leave your box at all, during the perform¬ 
ance?” 

“Yes. At the intermissions. And once, I think, for a 
cigarette in the ladies’ room, during the second act.” 

“I see. And the night before. Where did you spend 
the evening?” 

“You mean the night Mrs. Kirby was killed, of course. 
I spent it here. The earlier part, at least. Later I went 
for a drive.” 

“Alone?” 

“No. With Mr. Reed and ... a friend.” 

“Will you give me the friend’s name?” 

“No. I prefer not to.” The woman was quite calm 
and self-possessed. Duveen, meeting her eyes, knew he 
had learned all she meant to tell him. He dropped his 
gaze, gave a slight start as he noticed the pin she wore 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


185 


at her neck. A gold horseshoe, set with rubies. Across 
it, a rather curiously shaped metal bar. 

“That is a very attractive bit of jewelry, Mrs. Mitch¬ 
ell,” he said, watching her face. “That pointed bar, 
now . . . ?” 

“It’s a horseshoe nail,” the woman replied indiffer¬ 
ently. “From one of the shoes Man of War was wearing 
when he won the Kentucky Derby. My husband, Mr. 
Mitchell, cleaned up on the race, and had the pin made 
for me as a souvenir of the occasion; he knew the owner.” 

Inspector Duveen nodded, his brain going around in 
circles. Was the woman innocent, or cleverly acting? 
The horseshoe pin might be only a chance coincidence 
. . . he had been deceived, led astray by coincidences 
before. And it might be the solution of the mystery. 
Confused, uncertain, he went back to his office, realiz¬ 
ing that so far as Mrs. Mitchell was concerned he had 
no case. 

The pile of reports on his desk had grown thicker; 
he ran through them, but found no light. The mur¬ 
derer had been enormously careful to cover his tracks, 
leave no valuable clues. 

Fingerprints? Nothing. The pen, the door of the 
safe, even the glazed surface of the Cannes snapshot 
had been wiped clean. The strands of dead hair showed 
a wig, but a canvass of costumers, wigmakers in both 
Washington and Baltimore had not traced its purchaser, 
nor had Duveen expected it would. Reports from the 
laboratory indicated that the wig was an old one; who- 




186 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


ever had used it might have had the thing in their 
possession for years. Mrs. Mitchell, for instance; she had 
once been on the stage. By now, having served its pur¬ 
pose, it had probably been destroyed. 

He pushed the reports aside, scowling. A sweet case. 
He had hoped to break it, before the Major got back, 
but there seemed little chance of that, now. He glanced 
up as one of his men came in. 

“Well, Hunter?” he asked. “Anything new?” 

“I been checking up on Ransom’s alibi,” the detective 
said. “Nothing doing; that waitress, Katie Bolek, isn’t 
expected to live.” 

“Hm . . . m. You been to the theatre again?” 

“Just now. There was a slim, dark woman called to 
see Lawrence Dane . . .” 

“I talked to that doorkeeper last night! He didn’t say 
anything, then, about a woman.” The Inspector scowled. 

“The old bozo was pretty upset. Now he tells me this 
dame showed up at the stage entrance around nine- 
thirty, soon after the second act began . . . said she was 
Dane’s wife, and he’d told her, if he wasn’t in his dress¬ 
ing room, to wait.” 

“Did Dane have a wife?” 

“Search me. You know actors.” 

“Get a good description of her?” 

“Say, Chief, that doorkeeper’s so nearsighted he can’t 
see the end of his nose. Just a doddering old wreck. He 
said ‘tall, dark, good-looking.’ That’s the score. Only 
about fifty thousand like it, in Washington.” 

“When did she go out?” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


187 


“She didn’t. Not by the stage entrance. Probably 
through the house. Nobody would have noticed her, 
with the lights down; probably thought she was one of 
the ushers.” 

“Or,” Duveen said grimly, “she might have gone into 
a box.” 

“Sure she might. Anyway, it wasn’t that red-headed 
French maid; she’s locked^up. What about Miss Kirby?” 

“In her room all evening, according to reports.” 

“How about the Vickery girl?” 

“Having dinner with Ransom, at the Willard; he 
brought her home in his car at 9.45.” 

Hunter scratched his ear, frowning. 

“I don’t like to butt in Chief,” he said, “but what time 
did they leave the hotel?” 

“About fifteen minutes past nine. Rafferty didn’t have 
orders to tail them home.” 

“Then they could of stopped at the theatre, on the 
way. Must have stopped somewhere; it wouldn’t take 
them half an hour to drive out to the Senator’s house.” 

“They could have ridden around. Nothing in that, 
Hunter . . . those two are in love . . .” 

“Maybe. But I can’t get it out of my noodle, Chief, 
that they were there on the ground when the old lady 
was bumped off. All we know about what happened 
is what they tell us.” 

“Nonsense!” Duveen shook his head. “Strangers. 
Never met before, except at lunch.” 

“What of it? Say this Ransom gets to the house that 
night a few minutes earlier than he claims he did. Say 



188 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


he looks through the window, sees the girl, and Mrs. 
Kirby, dead. He goes in . . . Miss Vickery works on 
his sympathies, tells him she has a fortune in pearls 
tucked away in that vase . . . which goes back to the 
conservatory first thing in the morning. She wouldn’t 
know the pearls were phony, then. How do we know 
he didn’t fall for it? Fall for her? We’ve both seen 
cases. A guy would have to be plenty tough, Chief, to 
turn a swell piece of dress goods like that up, on a mur¬ 
der charge. A lot of ’em go soft, when a dame in trouble 
appeals to their better natures, switches on the water¬ 
works.” 

“What about the photograph?” Duveen growled. 

“You said yourself whoever left it there figured to frame 
de Zara. Maybe that was the girl’s idea, too.” 

“Hell! Where would she get it?” 

“If Dane sent that picture to Mrs. Kirby, or gave it to 
her, earlier in the day, it might have been there in one 
of the desk drawers.” 

Inspector Duveen tapped the edge of his desk with a 
lead pencil. 

“Hunter,” he said, “I think you’re all wrong. But 
maybe I am. Mrs. Kirby was murdered around a quar¬ 
ter to twelve, according to Miss Vickery’s story. Ran- 
some claims he didn’t reach the house until nine or ten 
minutes later. You see if you can dig up anybody who 
saw him drive into the side lane. Saw his car. If he’s 
lying, we’ll know something. Personally, while I like the 
young fellow, if we could pin this murder on him and 
the girl it would take a great load off my mind.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


189 


“I get you, Chief,” Hunter said. “There’s always the 
political angle.” 

“Pin it on them honestly, I mean. I’m not looking to 
frame anybody. Now get going.” 

“Right.” Hunter paused at the door. “1 forgot to say 
Mr. Luke Reed is waiting to see you. Fit to be hog- 
tied.” 

“Tell them to send him in,” Duveen sighed. 

Mr. Reed came into the office, raging. 

“What’s the idea, Duveen?” he snarled angrily. 

“I want to see you.” The Inspector waved to a chair. 
“Sit down. There are a couple of questions . . .” 

“Such as . . . ?” 

“Such as where were you the night Mrs. Kirby was 
murdered? Say from ten till twelve?” 

“Driving in my car.” 

“Anybody with you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Who?” 

“Senator Kirby.” 

“He doesn’t say so.” 

“You mean he hasn’t, so far. He will, at the inquest 
today.” 

“Fixed it up with him, have you?” 

“You know that’s a lie, Duveen. The Senator will 
testify he was in my car that night from ten to twelve. 
I shall do the same . . .” 

“Where did you drive?” 

“Nowhere in particular; we wanted the air.” 

“Alone?” 




190 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“No. There was a lady with us.” 

“Who?” 

“I prefer not to say.” 

“You don’t have to, Reed.” The Inspector was crook¬ 
ing his trigger finger. “I’ve already talked to her.” 

“I know you have.” The lawyer’s fox-like face drew 
into a scowl. “However, it will not be necessary to drag 
her into the matter. Senator Kirby’s word, and mine, 
will be quite enough to establish an alibi.” 

“But not enough,” Duveen said slowly, “to prove that 
Mrs. Mitchell wasn’t at the Senator’s house.” 

Reed’s lips, rather thin, curled back to show rodent¬ 
like teeth. 

“Inspector Duveen!” he said, “don’t you think you 
would be wiser to spend your time tracking down reason¬ 
able suspects, such as this man de Zara, or the young 
fellow, Ransom, who discovered the body? I don’t be¬ 
lieve his story. As for de Zara, he had more to gain 
from Mrs. Kirby’s death than anyone else.” 

“I’m not overlooking them,” Duveen growled. “Mrs. 
Mitchell stood to gain a lot, too. A chance to marry 
Senator Kirby.” 

“Have you the slightest possible evidence to connect 
her with the murder?” Reed asked, striving to control 
his temper. 

“Not yet. I’m looking for it. She was in a box with 
you at the theatre last night.” 

“What of it?” 

“Nothing ... if she didn’t go back stage.” 

“Go back stage? I don’t get you.” Mr. Reed seemed 
genuinely bewildered. 


*♦ 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


191 

“Are you ready to swear she didn’t leave that box 
during the second act?” 

<£T _ >) 

I am. 

“She told me she went to the ladies’ room . . . smoked 
a cigarette.” 

Luke Reed sprang to his feet; his voice was acid enough 
to burn the varnish from Duveen’s desk. 

“Look here!” he cried. “You lay off my friends or by 
the living God I’ll break you!” 

Inspector Duveen raised his mangled hand; his eyes 
were shreds of blue ice. 

“See that, Mr. Reed?” he asked, crooking his lone 
forefinger over the stumps. “I didn’t get it running 
away from a fight! Don’t try to give me orders; nobody 
does that, but Major Bliss!” 

“You blithering fool!” Mr. Reed’s face was scarlet. 
“You can’t drag Senator Kirby into this mess! He’s too 
big a man . . . too important! It will hurt his political 
friends . . . hurt the party! We can’t have his personal 
affairs smeared all over the front pages, just because a 
dumb detective . . .” 

The Inspector rose from his chair, towering almost a 
foot above the undersized lawyer. 

“I told the Senator this morning,” he said, “that I 
wasn’t giving anything to the newspapers I could keep 
out. When I said that, I didn’t know this actor, Dane, 
had been murdered!” 

“Murdered?” The lawyer’s face was a sheet of grey 
paper. 

“That’s what I said . . . murdered!” Duveen was 
shaking with rage. “I’m not here in the Department to 




192 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


play politics! My job is to work against crime. Maybe 
I’m dumb at it, but if so, that’s my hard luck. If you 
don’t like the way I’m running this office, see Major 
Bliss! He’ll be back in town tomorrow. When he says 
lay off, which he won’t, I’ll listen to it! Not before! In 
the meanwhile, if you come in here again telling me 
what I ought to do, I’ll throw you out on your ear! 
Get me?” 

“Get you?” Mr. Reed was livid. “By Heaven, I will 
get you, Duveen, if it’s the last thing I ever do!” He 
rushed from the office. 

Duveen sank back into his chair. A quotation, reminis¬ 
cent of high school days, drifted through his brain. A 
Shakespearean quotation, having to do with one who, 
guilty, did protest too much. 

“This,” the Inspector sighed, “is one hell of a case! 
But I’ve got to go through with it!” 




XX 


To both Steve and Ann, the inquest into Mrs. Kirby’s 
death proved less of an ordeal than they had expected. 

So far as Steve was concerned, the questions asked 
by the Coroner dealt solely with the matter of his ar¬ 
rival at the house, his discovery of Mrs. Kirby’s body. 

Ann’s testimony confirmed all his statements. She 
had been alarmed by certain sounds from the floor be¬ 
low, had come downstairs to find Mr. Ransom in the 
morning room, whereupon they had at once called up a 
doctor, notified the police. 

To Steve’s astonishment, neither of them was asked 
regarding a plot to steal Mrs. Kirby’s pearls; Parsons, 

the footman who had overheard their absurd conversa- 

« 

tion was not even placed on the witness stand. 

Steve glanced somewhat uneasily at the Inspector. 
Why had this testimony been withheld? The expres¬ 
sion on Duveen’s face, however, told him nothing. The 
police, it seemed, were ready to accept a perfunctory 
verdict, not having had time to develop a satisfactory case. 

He.smiled at Ann, sitting next to him, pressed her hand. 
It seemed incredible that less than three days had passed 
since he had first set foot in Halfway House . . . had 
stood admiring a clump of blue hydrangeas! So much 
had happened since that time . . . two sudden deaths 


193 


194 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


. . . and the birth within him of something quite as im¬ 
portant . . . something akin to life itself. He wondered 
if Ann felt the same way about it. 

Edward, the fragile old butler, was telling his story. 
Of Mrs. Kirby’s late visitor, whom he had glimpsed from 
an upstairs window. A woman, wearing a long, dark 
coat, whose face he had not seen. None of the other 
servants were able to corroborate his statement; they 
had been in bed. Then Jean Kirby was on the stand, 
pale as alabaster, telling of her presence at de Zara’s 
apartment, her late arrival at the house. To Steve’s sur¬ 
prise, not only the Count, but Georgette Masson, her 
mother’s ex-maid, confirmed her statements. The three 
of them had been together, at de Zara’s studio, from 
eleven until after twelve. Why? The Count lied like a 
gentleman to explain that; the Masson woman had 
come asking for an engagement as personal maid, when 
Miss Kirby did him the honor to become his wife. 

All very innocuous, very respectable. Senator Kirby, 
the rugged statesman, snapped out his answers grudg¬ 
ingly. He had left home immediately after dinner . . . 
had joined his friend and legal advisor, Mr. Reed, at the 
latter’s house. Later, they had gone for a drive ... as 
Mr. Reed, at his elbow, promptly testified. No mention 
of a third member of their party; the Coroner was not 
disposed to probe. Steve smiled to himself; politics was 
a marvellous game. Again he glanced at Duveen, but 
the Inspector might have been a wooden Indian. 

The greatest surprise of all, Steve thought, was the 
complete suppression of everything having to do with 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


195 


the Cannes photograph. Duveen’s testimony regarding 
his call to Halfway House, the events that followed, made 
no mention of it. There was, perhaps, a good reason for 
that. To produce the picture now, before a clear case 
had been built up, would have served only to infuriate 
Senator Kirby, blacken his dead wife’s name, and put 
the guilty person or persons on guard. Apparently the 
Inspector did not intend to have the case turned over to 
the newspapers. A clever egg, the Inspector . . . honest. 
Most men weren’t. After five minutes of deliberation, 
the jury brought in the usual indeterminate verdict. 

Steve forced his way through the swarm of reporters 
surrounding Duveen, wondering what, if anything, the 
Inspector had up his sleeve. Luke Reed, shaking hands 
with the Coroner, showed all his sharp teeth in a vivid 
smile. Invisible wires had no doubt been pulled; the 
whole affair had gone off like a well-rehearsed bit of 
drama. Only the newspaper men were dissatisfied. 

Inspector Duveen glanced at Steve down his stubborn 
nose. 

“Doing anything this evening, young fellow?” he 
inquired. 

“Nothing in particular,” Steve said, glancing at Ann. 
“Why?” 

“I want to see you. Come around to my office after 
dinner. Say at seven-thirty. Or a quarter to eight. Some 
points I’d like to go over.” 

“All right,” Steve agreed. “I’m going in town any¬ 
way . . . back to my hotel.” He met Duveen’s eyes, 
found them inscrutable. “Anything wrong?” 



196 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Not that I know of.” 

“Did you see Mrs. Mitchell?” 

The Inspector withdrew still further behind his mask. 

“A very charming woman,” he said. Abruptly he 
turned away, stopped to speak to one of his men. Steve 
stared after him for a moment, bewildered, then went 
up to Jean Kirby, standing not far away, with Ann. 

“You’ve been very kind, Miss Kirby,” he said. 

“Are you going?” Ann asked. 

“Yes. To my hotel. The Inspector wants to see me, 
this evening. I’ll come out after breakfast tomorrow 
and honk my horn. There’s something I want to talk 
over with you.” 

“Another play?” Ann’s grin was deliberate. “I hope 
this time,” she went on, under her breath, “it isn’t a 
tragedy.” 

“Not a bit of it. Or a comedy either.” Steve was very 
serious. “Just a nice, wholesome domestic drama; the 
kind that always makes a hit at the box office. Home 
and mother stuff.” 

“It’s a popular subject,” Ann said. “I trust you have 
the ability to make it interesting.” She put her arm 
about Jean Kirby, moved away. “Be seeing you,” she 
called over her shoulder. 

Steve went into the house. Common politeness de¬ 
manded that he should say good-bye to his host. He found 
Senator Kirby in his study with Luke Reed: both seemed 
in a dangerous humor. 

“I want to thank you for your hospitality, Senator,” 
Steve said. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


197 


Mr. Reed glared at him. The Senator spoke, gruffly. 

“Let us hope, Mr. Ransom,” he said, “that you will 
respect it.” 

“I don’t understand, sir.” Steve felt his cheeks grow¬ 
ing red. 

“I think you do.” The Senator’s manner was arrogant. 
“The police are quite able to look after their affairs, 
without the assistance of amateurs.” He turned his back, 
spoke to Luke Reed. 

Steve went out to his car, raging. Some newspaper men 
crowded about him, eager for a story. He pushed them 
aside, got into his car, drove off. Had Reed been telling 
the Senator of his, Steve’s, activities in the case? It 
seemed probable. But why resent them, if he and Kirby 
had nothing to conceal ? There were, of course, political 
repercussions . . . the fear of a scandal. 

Still fuming over Senator Kirby’s rudeness, Steve went 
to his room and changed. Before seeing the Inspector, 
he would have to get a bite to eat. He had just pulled 
on his coat when the telephone bell rang. 

“Hello?” he asked. 

“Dr. Badouine calling,” the clerk at the desk said. 

“Send him right up!” Steve was overjoyed. He had 
planned, all day, to see the doctor, but his trip to town, 
the inquest, later, had prevented it. Something told him 
that Dr. Badouine, could he be induced to talk, might 
supply the key to the mystery of both Mrs. Kirby’s 
death, and that of Lawrence Dane. He awaited the 
psycho-analyst’s coming impatiently. 




XXI 


Detective Sergeant Hunter in certain respects re¬ 
sembled a bull-dog; when his jaws closed on anything 
he held his grip indefinitely. It was an admirable quality. 

For two hours he questioned the neighbors of Half¬ 
way House, hoping to find someone who had seen a 
streamlined grey sedan in the narrow lane, on the night 
of Mrs. Kirby’s murder. 

Just when he thought his investigations would prove 
fruitless, he struck a promising clue. 

The Negro butler of a house nearby had gone to the 
corner, at half-past eleven, to post some letters. 

On his way back, he remembered having seen a grey 
car, turning into the lane at the east side of Halfway 
House. 

He had not taken the number of it; there seemed no 
reason why he should. Nor had its presence attracted 
his particular attention. All he could tell Hunter, with 
any certainty, was that the car had been there, in the 
lane, at a little after eleven-thirty; he was sure of the 
time, because he had heard a clock, as he left the house, 
strike the half hour. His walk to the corner and back 
could not have taken over five minutes. 

198 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


199 


Hunter returned to Halfway House, not satisfied. A 
car in the lane meant nothing, unless it was shown to be 
Ransom’s grey sedan. He went up to the machine, stand¬ 
ing alongside the curb. It had not been used since the 
night before; Mr. Ransom and the Vickery girl had 
driven in town with Inspector Duveen. 

Hunter opened the door. He had gone over the car 
very thoroughly on the night of Mrs. Kirby’s murder, 
without results. Stubbornly, mechanically, he began an¬ 
other search. 

Nothing in the pockets . . . nothing under either the 
front or rear seat cushions. In the small dashboard com¬ 
partment was a pair of wadded black gloves. Woman’s 
gloves, Hunter noted; they had not been there when 
he examined the car before. He took them out, stiffened 
suddenly as he noticed something unusual about one of 
the fingers. A slender object had been stuffed into it 
. . . slender and round. 

Very carefully Hunter worked the object free, avoid¬ 
ing contact with his fingers. A slim glass vial, about 
the diameter of a lead pencil, and perhaps two inches 
long. Corked, with a drop or two of some colorless 
liquid still remaining in the bottom of it. 

With a contented smile, Hunter wrapped the tiny 
bottle in his handkerchief, got into his car. The Chief 
had put it up to him to produce some real evidence 
against the Vickery girl and her boy friend; he believed 
he had that evidence now. The poison used to murder 
Lawrence Dane. Poured into his bottle of whiskey at 
the theatre. Miss Vickery had been in the car around 





200 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


nine-thirty the night before. But why had she kept the 
empty bottle ? Why had she not thrown it away ? 

Hunter pondered that question endlessly throughout 
his drive to Police Headquarters. Did it mean that the 
girl was acting independently, without Ransom’s knowl¬ 
edge ? Had she, sitting there beside him, worked the tiny 
vial into one of her glove fingers, because she did not 
dare toss it from the car for fear her action might be 
observed? In that case, why leave her gloves behind? 
The argument did not seem very sound. Nor did it 
explain how the girl could have left the car, gone into 
the theatre without her companion knowing why she 
had done so. It seemed unlikely. Unless . . . 

At Headquarters, Inspector Duveen proved to be out. 
Hunter examined the gloves. Small, delicately perfumed. 
Comparatively new. His eyes glowed as he saw inked 
inside both of them the tiny initials, “A. V.” 

“That settles it!” he muttered and went up to the 
laboratory. 

“See if you guys can find out what was in this bottle, 
Joe,” he said to a grey-haired man squinting at a test 
tube. “It ought to be aconitine. There aren’t any finger¬ 
prints.” 





The doctor came into the room, smiling but obviously 
tired. There was no lack of fire, however, Steve noticed, 
in his keen, intelligent eyes. 

“Hard day,” he said, dropping into a chair. 

“Drink?” Steve went toward the telephone. 

“No, thanks. I’ll be all right, as soon as I have my 
dinner. Been tied up since noon on a most distressing 
case. Homicidal mania. Developed overnight. One of 
my best patients ... a young girl I thought on the high¬ 
road to recovery. You never can tell what obscure com¬ 
plexes are lying dormant in such unbalanced minds; the 
poor creature tried to stab her own mother with a pair 
of garden shears. Quite mad, I’m afraid.” 

“Dreadful!” Steve nodded. “I looked for you, at the 
inquest.” 

“The Coroner didn’t need me; the Medical Examin¬ 
er’s testimony was sufficient. I stopped by Halfway 
House, after leaving the hospital, saw Miss Vickery; she 
told me you’d lit out for your hotel, bag and baggage. 
What was the trouble, may I ask?” 

“No trouble.” Steve laughed. “I just couldn’t feel 
happy any longer under Senator Kirby’s large but in¬ 
hospitable roof ... the old crab! Annoyed, I think, by 


201 


202 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


my humble activities in the case. Or he may have a 
guilty conscience.” 

“Anything new about Dane’s death? I see the news¬ 
papers called it suicide, from the evidence. Is that the 
police view?” 

“I should say not. Dane was murdered. Somebody 
poisoned his whiskey, and later on switched bottles. 
Very clever . . . only, the murderer forgot about cork¬ 
screws . . . and corks. By the use of my superior intel¬ 
ligence,” Steve went on, grinning, “I was able to put 
our friend Duveen on the right track.” He explained 
the matter briefly. 

“Amazing!” the doctor exclaimed, regarding Steve 
with a look of admiration. “Never should have thought 
of it. What a pity we stopped to let you smoke that 
cigarette, after the second act; if we had arrived at Dane’s 
dressing room a few minutes earlier, we might have 
surprised the murderer changing bottles . . . caused his, 
or her, arrest. Queer, Mrs. Mitchell being there in the 
theatre. Do the police suspect her?” 

“I don’t know. Duveen had a talk with her, I believe; 
he may tell me the results when I see him, after dinner 
tonight. All he said at the inquest was that he thought 
her a very charming woman.” 

Dr. Badouine gave a somewhat cynical laugh. 

“So does Senator Kirby. The lady must have hidden 
charms. And of course most men would rather condemn 
another man, than a woman. Especially an attractive 
woman. Instinctive desire to protect the so-called weaker 
sex. Not a bit weaker, really. Stronger, in many ways. 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


203 


One of them is a ruthless ability to make use of this 
imaginary weakness, to obtain all sorts of privileges, 
concessions, from men. Duveen is only human.” 

“Didn’t know you were a misogynist,” Steve said. 

“Lord, no . . . far from it.” The doctor chuckled. 
“As a matter of fact I happen to be in love myself, right 
now. With a very charming woman. But as a wife 
likely to prove expensive. Most charming women are, 
I think. However, that is neither here nor there. Who 
is your latest suspect, if not Mrs. Mitchell?” The doctor 
cocked a slightly ironical eye. “I hope you do better 
than we did yesterday.” 

“Don’t ask me,” Steve groaned. “That’s up to the 
police. My personal choice would be Senator Kirby. 
Helped, no doubt, by his lawyer and man of all work, 
Luke Reed. If I ever saw a poisonous little reptile, he’s 
it.” 

Dr. Badouine sat for several moments staring out of 
the window. Suddenly he straightened his tired shoul¬ 
ders. 

“Mr. Ransom,” he said, “I’m going to tell you some¬ 
thing that perhaps I shouldn’t, but it can do Mrs. Kirby 
no harm now, poor woman, and may help to discover 
her murderer. The constant dread that she lived under 
. . . a fear complex which was slowly undermining her 
entire nervous system, her health, arose from a belief 
that her husband intended to kill her, in order to marry 
again. It was more than a mere belief; she assured 
me that he had actually tried to take her life on at 
least two occasions. 




204 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“What?” Steve gasped. “Why . . . when you tell 
Duveen that ... !” 

“But I can’t tell Duveen,” the doctor interrupted. “Such 
communications between physician and patient are priv¬ 
ileged. They can’t be brought into court. And in this 
case, perhaps, merely the ramblings of a troubled and 
neurotic mind. I mention the matter to you, because 
you think Senator Kirby may be guilty; if he is, you 
will have to find other and more positive proof. As for 
what I have just told you, please keep it to yourself.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “I shall. But at least it confirms 
my impression that Kirby is quite capable of having com¬ 
mitted the crime. Although not of having disguised 
himself as a woman . . . he’s far too big.” 

“Still,” the doctor went on quietly, “that objection 
would not apply to Mr. Reed. He is, you may have no¬ 
ticed, a very small man, smooth-shaven, with almost 
effeminate hands and feet.” 

“Hell’s fire,” Steve exclaimed, “that’s right!” 

“Also, quite unscrupulous enough, I imagine, to com¬ 
mit any skullduggery, even murder, in the interests of 
the Senator’s political career. With Mrs. Kirby out of 
the way, her husband can now marry Mrs. Mitchell, after 
a decent interval, without sacrificing the respect of the 
public. To have done so, in the face of a nasty divorce 
scandal, would have ruined him, politically . . . killed 
his future. And, from what I hear, he has large ambi¬ 
tions. A cabinet post, perhaps, if his party is successful 
in the coming elections. Even an eye on the White 
House.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


205 


Steve gave a shrill whistle. 

“The idea,” he said, “certainly has its possibilities! 
Reed may have come to the house disguised as a woman 
. . . tried to make Mrs. Kirby listen to reason . . . failed 
. . . killed her . . . escaped to join the Senator and 
Mrs. Mitchell, waiting in their car. That would give him 
a good alibi! And last night, Reed was there in a box 
at the theatre.” 

“With every reason for a second murder if Dane saw 
Mrs. Mitchell steal the photograph.” 

“In that case,” Steve said, “it was probably Mrs. 
Mitchell who came to see Mrs. Kirby. I don’t mean she 
killed her . . . you see, we’ve got to explain the presence 
of those bonds in Mrs. Kirby’s safe . . . but she may have 
shown up with the snapshot, tried by means of it to 
compel a divorce. Mrs. Kirby comes back with an offer 
to buy the picture, for a couple of hundred thousand 
bucks. No sale. The two women have a row. Mrs. 
Mitchell chokes, silences her . . . runs off. That would 
be about eleven-thirty. Joins Reed and the Senator, wait¬ 
ing outside. They don’t dare leave things that way; 
knowing that as soon as Mrs. Kirby comes to she will 
talk. So Reed, or the Senator, or both, go back and finish 
the operation.” 

“Certainly logical,” Dr. Badouine agreed. “All except 
leaving the photograph behind. Still, the two men may 
have thought Mrs. Mitchell had it. Or used the thing 
as a red herring across the trail to confuse the blood¬ 
hounds of the law!” The doctor laughed, a bit harshly. 
“Just because we can’t imagine Kirby leaving that pic- 





20 6 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


ture makes it, psychologically, one of the safest things 
he could do. It points straight to de Zara as the murderer, 
and but for what may well be a manufactured alibi, the 
Count still remains our most logical suspect.” 

“Why?” Steve asked quickly. “Kirby had just as strong 
a motive.” 

“No. Not as strong. A woman . . . yes. But with de 
Zara, not only a woman, but a fortune of twenty mil¬ 
lions, as soon as he and Miss Kirby are married. In the 
long run he stands to gain far more, by Mrs. Kirby’s 
death, than anyone else.” 

Steve sat for a moment, thinking. Of de Zara’s small, 
round-bladed stiletto, so carefully replaced to hide the 
dust-silhouette on the wall. Of the Count’s presence, 
with a slim, dark woman, so near the theatre the night 
before. Of the wrapped bottle, that might have con¬ 
tained whiskey . . . Scotch whiskey . . . under his arm. 
The ringing of the telephone bell brought him back to 
realities. 

He picked up the instrument, heard Ann’s voice; it 
sounded, he thought, a bit unnatural, strained. 

“Hello, honey!” he said. “Anything wrong?” 

“No, Steve . . . nothing wrong.” The unexpected 
use of his first name thrilled him. “Only ... I think 
I’ve found out what Mrs. Kirby meant . . . about . . . 
about a nail!” 

“What?” Steve exclaimed; his voice made the trans¬ 
mitter rattle. 

“I can’t tell you . . . now.” Ann was whispering. 
“I’d rather not speak of it . . . mention names . . . over 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


207 


the telephone. The whole thing is too . . . incredible. I 
want to talk to you, first. Can you come out here, after 
dinner ?” 

“Of course! The minute I get through with Duveen; 
he expects me at his office, around a quarter to eight. 
But this sounds mighty important . . .” 

“It is. Still, it will keep until you get here.” 

“Tell you what you do,” Steve said. “I won’t darken 
the Senator’s doorway, little one. Not after the way he 
treated me this afternoon. Stephen Ransom may be a 
worm, but he still has his pride. When you finish din¬ 
ner, beat it down to that stone bench in the garden. You 
know . . . the one by the lily pond. Wait there, and 
think of me. I don’t know how long I’ll be with Duveen, 
but I’ll join you as soon as I can make it . . . say 
around nine o’clock. Right? And take care of yourself, 
sweetness. You’re sure, are you, about this nail busi¬ 
ness?” 

“So sure,” Ann replied, in a small, somewhat terrified 
voice, “that I think I can tell you who the murderer 
was. You come out. I don’t dare talk any longer now.” 
He heard the receiver click into place. 

“Anything new?” the doctor asked, as Steve turned 
from the telephone. “You seem upset.” 

“New? My God!” Steve sank into a chair. “You 
remember those words Mrs. Kirby called out just before 
she was choked, murdered? Something about a nail.” 

“Very well. We discussed it, if I am not mistaken. 
My thought was she had accused someone of black¬ 
mail.” 



208 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Miss Vickery just telephoned me she’s got the answer. 
What do you think about that?” 

“Remarkable,” the doctor nodded, “assuming she is 
right.” 

“I’d have my doubts, with most women,” Steve went 
on. “But not Ann Vickery. When she says a thing, I 
pay attention to it.” 

“So I have observed.” Dr. Badouine gave Steve an 
amused smile. “And what is her explanation?” 

“She didn’t tell me. Wouldn’t, over the telephone. 
Wants me to come out . . . says she can name the mur¬ 
derer.” 

“You are going, of course?” 

“Of course. As soon as I get through with Duveen.” 

The doctor rose, picked up his hat, nodding. 

“I should not be surprised,” he said, “if what Miss 
Vickery has discovered bears out the information I have 
just given you, regarding Senator Kirby. Those homi¬ 
cidal attacks on his wife. I shall be tremendously inter¬ 
ested to hear what she has to say. Why not stop by at 
my house on your way downtown? I expect to be at 
home all evening; we might have a drink, a little chat.” 

“It’s a date,” Steve said. 




The Inspector was late in returning to his office at 
Headquarters; he had spent a futile hour, at the theatre, 
questioning the doorkeeper, stage crew, the call boy. 
Hunter was waiting for him, a pair of gloves, a small 
glass bottle, in his hands. 

“Thought I better see you, Chief,” he said, “before you 
talked to that Ransom guy; he’s waiting outside.” 

“I know.” The Inspector nodded. “What’s on your 
mind?” 

Hunter laid the gloves, the bottle, on Duveen’s desk, 
explained where he had found them. 

“You wanted evidence,” he said. “I got it. Aconitine 
in the bottle; here’s the laboratory report. Miss Vickery’s 
initials on the gloves! Dead open and shut. Looks to 
me like the two of them better be given the works.” 

Inspector Duveen stared at the desk-top, frowning. He 
was not satisfied; the case looked too open and shut. 

“Could have been planted,” he said. “That car’s been 
standing out in front of the Senator’s house ever since 
Ransom brought it back last night.” 

“Pollock was on duty; he’d of seen anybody go near it.” 

“Ought to have.” 

“I found a coon, works two doors away, says he no- 


209 



210 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


ticed a streamlined grey sedan in that lane alongside the 
Kirby place at half-past eleven, the night the old lady 
was murdered.” 

“Lots of grey sedans,” Duveen replied. “Our friend 
Luke Reed has one.” 

Hunter was annoyed at the Inspector’s lack of en¬ 
thusiasm. 

“What’s the idea, Chief?” he said. “Got some dope 
I haven’t heard about?” 

“No, Sam!” Duveen crashed his fist on the desk-top. 
“I wish I had. But use your bean. We figured Dane a 
suicide. Not a scrap of evidence to show anything dif¬ 
ferent. Then Ransom comes along and gives it to us. 
Would a murderer do that? He would not!” 

“Maybe the girl worked the whole thing alone. Killed 
Mrs. Kirby before Ransom got there, planted the photo¬ 
graph, hid the pearls, ran back upstairs when she heard 
his car. That would explain how the bottle came to be 
in the glove tip . . . she shoved it in there so Ransom 
wouldn’t see it. She was right near the theatre, at the 
time that woman came in.” 

“How could she get out of the car, without Ransom 
knowing it? Be yourself.” 

“Maybe she wasn’t in the car. Maybe she did it while 
Ransom was up in his room at the hotel, packing his bag. 
He had to leave her, didn’t he, so he could check out? 
They didn’t get home until nine-forty-five. Could do it 
in a quarter of an hour. There’s ten, fifteen, minutes, to 
be accounted for somehow. I think the girl’s guilty as 
hell.” 



DESIGN FOR MURDER 


211 


Duveen stared at the gloves without seeing them; he 
felt intuitively, that some vital clue in the case had so far 
eluded him, been completely missed. 

“All right, Sam,” he said wearily. “You’ve done mighty 
good work. Send Ransom in here.” 

Steve entered the office, bubbling over with enthusiasm. 
He did not see the frown on Duveen’s face. 

“Miss Vickery telephoned me just before dinner, Chief,” 
he announced, “that she’s found out what Mrs. Kirby 
meant by ‘The nail!’ ” 

“Has she?” The Inspector said dryly. “I came across a 
possible explanation of it myself, talking to Mrs. Mitchell. 
What’s Miss Vickery’s idea?” 

“She wouldn’t tell me. I’m going out to the house as 
soon as I leave here.” 

“Before you go there are some questions I’ll have to ask 
you.” Duveen picked up the gloves. “One of my men 
found these, this morning, in your car.” 

“Sure. Why not? Miss Vickery left them there last 
night, when I drove her home. I put them in the dash¬ 
board compartment.” 

“This bottle,” Duveen went on, his voice harsh as ashes, 
“was found stuck in the finger of one of them. It still has 
a little poison . . . aconitine ... in the bottom of it.” 

Steve leaped from his chair, faced the Inspector in a 
sudden rage. 

“Somebody must have planted it there!” he shouted. 
“The dirty son of a . . .” 

“Pipe down!” Duveen waved his stumpy hand. “You 
have anyone in that car last night, except Miss Vickery?” 





212 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“No one! Not a soul! Look here, Inspector ... I just 
thought of something. Count de Zara was dining at the 
hotel, with a woman last night. They went out a little 
after nine. A tall, dark woman! He said she was the wife 
of a friend, he was taking to the station! He had a bottle, 
wrapped up, under his arm. It might have been whiskey 
to replace the poisoned one.” 

Duveen managed to check the furious outburst. 

“Keep your shirt on!” he said. “No use getting ex¬ 
cited; I’m not accusing anybody . . . yet.” 

“But,” Steve insisted, “my car was parked outside the 
theatre for half an hour, last night! Nothing to prevent 
de Zara, or that woman, from planting the poison bottle 
in those gloves.” 

“Nothing, except that he took her to the station, put 
her on a train, just as he said. I had a man tailing him.” 

“Then it must have been done later, after I drove the 
car back to Halfway House.” 

“I had a man on watch outside, all night.” 

“He couldn’t have kept his eyes on the car every 
minute! It was dark . . . my God!” 

Duveen’s head jerked up. Steve was standing rigid, an 
expression of terror on his face. 

“What’s the matter?” the Inspector said, eyeing him in 
surprise. 

“Don’t you see?” He glanced at his watch. “Miss 
Vickery telephoned me, before dinner, that she knew 
what Mrs. Kirby meant by those words she called out, 
just before she was murdered! Said she could tell me 
the murderer’s name! Suppose someone overheard her! 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


213 


There are extension phones all over the place! Senator 
Kirby . . . Luke Reed ... he was on hand for dinner 
. . . Miss Kirby . . . even if she isn’t guilty herself she 
might tip off the Count! The servants ... I don’t trust 
that fellow Parsons. And I told Miss Vickery, poor kid, to 
go down in the garden and wait for me there; because 
I didn’t feel welcome in Senator Kirby’s house! She’s 
sitting on that bench in the dark right now, all ready for 
the murderer to creep up and finish her! Before she has 
a chance to tell me what she knows! I don’t even dare 
telephone! Can’t be sure who would get the message 
. . . they’d have to send for her . . . might only precipi¬ 
tate matters! Hell!” He picked up his hat, ran to the 
door. “I’m going out there! Now! Should have gone be¬ 
fore! The fact that the empty poison bottle must have 
been planted in my machine during the night proves that 
the murderer is someone at Halfway House!” 

Inspector Duveen leaped from his desk; his cool blue 
eyes were suddenly blazing. 

“I’m going with you!” he said. “In my car, then we 
won’t have to worry about traffic lights!” 





XXIV 


Ann put down the telephone, went to the door of the 
library. She had spoken in a very low voice, little more 
than a whisper; it seemed certain that no one could have 
overheard her, even had they stood at the other end of 
the big, silent room. 

Her feet made no sound, on the deep-piled Eastern rugs. 
Down the long hall she saw Edward, the butler, coming 
toward her from the direction of the morning room; it 
was equipped with a telephone extension but she had no 
reason to feel suspicious of Edward ... to suppose that 
he had been listening ... no more reason than to sus¬ 
pect anyone else, in this dim and oppressive old house. 

At the other end of the corridor was Senator Kirby’s 
study; he was closeted there now, Ann knew, with Luke 
Reed. That room, too, had a telephone extension. Had 
either of the two men overheard what she had just con¬ 
fided to Steve? She could hear them talking, and could 
distinguish the Senator’s loud, sonorous voice, above Mr. 
Reed’s shrill, piping one. 

It would be a relief, Ann felt, to get away from this 
dismal place. Both its century-old murder and its more 
recent harrowing crime seemed to hold the threat of 
further tragedies to come. 

She laughed at her premonitions, turned into the cen- 


214 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


215 


tral hall. Jean Kirby was slowly descending the stairs. 
The girl had doubtless been in her own private suite on 
the floor above, also equipped with a telephone. She came 
down the steps like an automaton, holding herself erect 
with conscious effort. Her face, bloodless, was set in 
rigid lines, but her eyes were mobile, and unnaturally 
brilliant. Scarcely noticing Ann as she passed her, Jean 
went into the library, closed the door. 

Ann gazed after her, surprised. The girl, of course, 
was suffering intensely from the shock of her mother’s 
tragic death, the unpleasant experience of the inquest, 
but Ann could not shake off the feeling that Jean Kirby’s 
manner had for some reason become less friendly. Then 
Edward was tapping at the door of the Senator’s study, 
announcing that dinner was served. 

It was the first meal that the family had eaten together 
since the night of Mrs. Kirby’s murder, and Ann shiv¬ 
ered, certain that it would be a ghastly one. Tomorrow, 
thank God, she would be out of it all . . . would be on 
her way back to New York. With a curious, sinking 
sensation about her heart she went into the large, oak- 
panelled dining room, stood waiting for the others to 
appear. 

Jean Kirby joined her almost at once, white and im¬ 
passive; a moment later Luke Reed and the Senator came 
in. No one spoke; it was, Ann thought, like a scene from 
some dark and gloomy pantomime. She sat down, re¬ 
pressing a sudden impulse to scream. 

Parsons, the second man, moving as silently as a spirit 
figure, placed a pink crescent of melon before her, while 







21 6 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Edward, his fragile hand trembling, poured sherry into 
her glass. Ann drank the mellow wine gratefully, feeling 
the need of stimulation. 

At the far end of the table Senator Kirby and Luke Reed 
conversed in rumbling whispers, discussing some political 
issue. The Senator had never made a pretense of deep 
affection for his wife; he showed no evidences of grief 
now. The harsh, bony planes of his face, grey and in¬ 
scrutable, might have been cut from trap-rock; only his 
eyes, flicking from time to time about the table, betrayed 
his agitation. Something was disturbing him powerfully, 
Ann saw . . . something akin to fear. 

Luke Reed’s expression, on the contrary, was almost 
childishly bland; the little lawyer nodded and smirked 
as though nothing disturbed him, nothing more serious 
than the proper seasoning of his soup, or the state of the 
weather. That, Ann knew, was an even more impene¬ 
trable mask than the stony visage presented by Senator 
Kirby; at least one could see that the Senator was dis¬ 
turbed. In Mr. Reed’s case nothing was revealed; his ex¬ 
pression registered an absolute zero. 

Across the table, Jean Kirby forced down her food me¬ 
chanically, staring at her plate. Perhaps the vacant chair 
at her left, facing the Senator’s, was what kept them all 
so grimly silent. For the first time in her life Ann realized 
the dreadful emptiness that death can bring; that vacant 
chair was, in a way, the most vital and eloquent thing 
in the room; far more so than any of the four who sat 
there at the table. 

At last the ordeal came to an end. Ann set her coffee 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


217 


cup back into its saucer with a rattle that showed how 
her fingers were shaking, watched Jean rise, eager for 
the moment when she might escape to the garden. Ed¬ 
ward was serving cigars and brandy, in the library; Ann 
waited until the Senator and Mr. Reed had left the dining 
room, then went into the east-wing corridor. She was 
almost running as she reached the flagstone terrace. 

It was darker, outside, than she had expected, and even 
here, in the fresh, cool air she could not shake off the 
feeling of oppression under which she had labored 
throughout dinner. A premonition of danger which even 
the scent of freshly clipped grass, the perfume of syringa 
and lilacs, did nothing to relieve. 

She stood for a moment on the terrace. There was no 
moon; the night sky was like indigo velvet, dusted with 
pale stars. Before her stretched the double line of box 
trees; their dense, black foliage might have been carved 
from ebony, it seemed so rigid, still. With a laugh at her 
fears Ann ran swiftly between them, her feet scarcely 
touching the widely spaced flags. She was anxious to 
reach the small stretch of open lawn surrounding the 
bench, the lily pond; it was not so dark, there. 

Her eyes, accustomed now to the change in light, made 
out the long stone bench; it suggested, she thought with 
a shudder, a shadowy tomb. There were flower beds at 
either side of it, and beyond them, the circular marble 
rim of the pool. She sat down to wait, her heart pound¬ 
ing a little . . . hoped she would not have to wait long. 
The ordeal at the dinner table had been endless; Steve 
might appear at any moment now. 





2l8 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


It astonished, even amused her a little, to realize how 
eager she was to have him with her. Not only to tell him 
what she had discovered, but to feel that he was there, at 
her side. It was a new experience, so far as she was con¬ 
cerned, a new emotion. Hitherto no one man had mat¬ 
tered that much in her rather busy life. Plenty of friends, 
of course, with whom she dined, danced, went to parties, 
shows, but none of them had been . . . she tried to think 
of an adequate word . . . essential. That was it . . . 
essential. The ones she knew were not necessities, but 
luxuries, like the cocktails and caviar they bought her, 
the tickets for operas, plays. Now, for some mysterious 
reason, this particular and not very unusual male, with the 
humorous eyes and rusty brown hair had become neces¬ 
sary for her happiness and her well-being. Ann laughed 
at the thought of it, even though she knew it to be true. 
So this, it seemed, was love. A mysterious and quite un¬ 
reasonable process by which two ordinary, everyday people, 
not materially different from all the rest, suddenly found 
themselves essential to each other. Perhaps it was just a 
biological trick, but even so she found it a very pleasant 
one. She sat on the bench for a long time. 

Preoccupation ... a glamorous dream. It prevented 
her from hearing the almost noiseless footsteps on the 
soft, green turf . . . from seeing the shadow that moved 
among the deeper shadows along the line of box. She did 
not know of its presence until two arms slid over her 
shoulders, with muscular fingers at the end of them 
closing about her neck. 

To spring forward was automatic; Ann did so with 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


219 


such swift violence that she almost escaped those clutch¬ 
ing hands. Almost, but not quite. One of them caught at 
her shoulder, whirled her about as she attempted to run 
toward the house. Instantly the other was again at her 
throat. She was aware of a figure bending over her . . . 
a woman, wearing a long, dark coat. Taller than herself 
. . . stronger . . . with bright, terrible eyes ... a cruel, 
passion-twisted face! She tried to scream, struggling 
against those muscular hands, fighting desperately for 
breath! Everything seemed to be growing dimmer, flick¬ 
ering out, like a dying electric bulb, a guttering candle! 
Enormous drums were beating, thundering in her ears! 
Then blackness, in which there was no sensation at all! 
No knowledge of sensation! No wish for it! Oblivion! 





Steve Ransom scarcely spoke during that furious ten- 
minute drive; he spent the time alternately pressing his 
knees against the dashboard, and cursing himself for not 
having gone to the house at once. Criminal stupidity 
. . . no less! 

“I knew,” he muttered once, between hard, twisting 
lips, “that Senator Kirby tried to kill his wife, before!” 

“How?” Duveen asked, intent on his driving. 

Steve did not answer him. They were approaching the 
house, now. 

“The side lane!” he said. “That’s nearest to the bench 
where I told her to wait. My God, it’s dark!” 

Except for a faint sky-glow the garden was a mass of 
shadows, vague and uncertain. Steve was out of the car 
even before it stopped . . . was hurling himself over the 
low stone wall. With Duveen close behind him, he raced 
down the box-lined path. 

Ahead of them a woman screamed. Her voice, shrill 
with terror was instantly smothered, stopped. In the 
open space at the end of the walk two dim figures were 
struggling. Two women; their shadowy outlines told that 


220 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


221 


much. One of them fell, crashing heavily against the 
long stone bench . . . the other whirled off through the 
darkness. 

Steve dropped to his knees, scarcely realizing that the 
Inspector almost tripped over him as he vanished in 
quick pursuit. 

“Ann!” he whispered, close to sobbing. Her white, still 
face against his shoulder was what he had dreaded to see, 
all through that thundering drive. 

Always, after that night, the heavy, sick-sweet fra¬ 
grance of hyacinths made Steve Ransom physically ill. 
Beds of the wax-like flowers circled each end of the bench 
before which Ann’s body lay. 

Always, the keen odor of the flowers brought to his 
mind pictures of the garden . . . not sharp, vivid pic¬ 
tures, filled with detail, but cloudy visions, in deep 
shadow, like the place itself. Only the white face of the 
girl, staring sightlessly up into his own, stood out with 
any distinctness, and even that seemed a grotesque, im¬ 
possible mask. 

Before him stretched the ancient lovers’ lane, leading to 
Halfway House; lighted windows at the end of it made 
golden arabesques through the surrounding shrubbery. 

Behind lay the sweep of the garden, dotted with bushes 
in serried black clumps. From among them came the 
thud of running feet, faint and smothered, because of the 
soft, springy turf. Inspector Duveen, in pursuit of the 
woman who had darted away so swiftly upon their 
approach. The only other sound was a tremulous piping 
of tree-frogs, against a distant hum of city traffic. Dark- 




222 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


ness . . . silence . . . the heavy perfume of hyacinths 
. . . the wax-like pallor of Ann’s staring face! Those 
were the impressions that crowded Steve’s brain, during 
the fraction of a second that elapsed as he knelt down, 
took the girl in his arms. 

His left hand, under her head, was wet . . . sticky wet. 
Blood, he realized at once, groaning. She was not dead 
. . . the faint, almost imperceptible rise and fall of her 
breasts told him that. But the cry she had given as they 
raced toward her had been abruptly smothered, choked 
... by a hard grip on her throat. A murderous grip. 
No reason for blood, from that cause ... no reason for 
her present death-like immobility! There must be another 
... a fractured skull, perhaps, produced as she was flung 
backward against the marble bench, the hard stone flags 
beneath. 

Now he was carrying her toward the house. Staggering 
a little, not from the weight of his burden but from a 
guilty fear that help for the girl might have come too late. 
It was a very precious burden; only at that desperate 
moment did Steve realize how precious . . . one to be 
handled gently, lest some awkward slip or jar might 
leave her suddenly dead in his arms. 

Before him rose the amber oblongs of the French win¬ 
dows; he had entered the morning room through one of 
them, ages before, it seemed now, to find Mrs. Kirby 
dead. Who would have thought that only three nights 
later . . . ? 

Someone was in the room. A woman. Tall, slender, 
dressed in black. Jean Kirby. Her face was grey like old 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


223 


silver, tarnished, as she peered through the small, square 
panes. 

Steve kicked against the window frame. Violently. He 
did not speak. In this house were potential enemies. A 
murderer, perhaps ... or those who arranged to have 
murder done, for their safety, their ultimate benefit. That 
made no difference, now; even murderers would not dare 
refuse him aid. 

Jean Kirby opened the window, staring. Her eyes were 
dark with fear. 

“Oh!” she whispered, forcing out the words almost 
mechanically as she saw at a glance the limp figure in 
Steve’s arms. “Oh . . . Mr. Ransom! What . . . what 
has happened?” 

Steve strode into the room, brushing the girl aside in 
his haste. 

“Call the nearest doctor!” he exclaimed. “Life or death! 
And tell me where Miss Vickery’s room is!” 

Jean Kirby ran ahead of him into the hall. 

“The first door at the head of the stairs!” she said, 
pointing. “I’ll get Dr. Hall, he’s close.” She darted 
away. 

Steve climbed the endless steps, sweat in his eyes. From 
his feelings, he might have been sweating blood. A 
precious stream of it, warm and terrifying, dripped slowly 
down his wrist, his arm. He turned the knob of the door 
awkwardly with the hand supporting Ann’s sagging 
knees, lurched into the bedroom. Thank God for the 
small reading lamp, casting a faint circle of light over 
the turned-down sheets. He had not put a woman to 




224 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


bed before ... at least not a woman with whom he 
was in love. As he lowered her inert body red drops ap¬ 
peared on the counterpane; a bright crimson stain grew 
against the lace-edged pillows. Frantically he tried to 
check the flow of blood with his handkerchief. 

There was nothing to be done, but wait. Only a phy¬ 
sician could be of any help, now. Ann’s breathing, so 
faint before, was now scarcely perceptible; she seemed a 
woman dying, almost dead. Steve seized her wrist, des¬ 
perately counting her rapid and fluttering heartbeats. He 
knew nothing of pulses, had never had occasion to take 
even his own. Now he could feel it plainly enough, con¬ 
fusing that of the girl, shaking his whole frame. 

The door of the room was pushed open, and two figures 
came quickly in. Jean Kirby, whispering under her 
breath that Dr. Hall would arrive in a few moments. 
Inspector Duveen, staring at the unconscious girl on 
the bed, muttering angrily that the woman he had pur¬ 
sued had gotten away in a car . . . that because of the 
darkness he had been unable to secure the license number 
of it. 

“I’ve sent out a call,” he said to Steve, “but there’s 
nothing to go on! A woman, in a car! Thousands of’em! 
That won’t get us anywhere!” 

“No.” Steve was still trying at staunch the flow of 
blood from Ann’s head. “It won’t. Anyway, it doesn’t 
make much difference. Not now. Nothing does, except,” 
he glanced at Ann’s white face, “except Miss Vickery.” 

After that, a dull, terrifying silence, broken at last by 
the distant ringing of a bell. 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


225 


“The doctor!” Jean Kirby said, hurrying from the 
room. 

Inspector Duveen stood, a grim figure at the other 
side of the bed. 

“This killer,” he muttered, “is getting desperate. The 
poor kid’s message to you was overheard.” 

“Where is Senator Kirby?” Steve said suddenly. 

“Out. With Luke Reed. They left right after dinner, 
the butler tells me . . . didn’t say where they were 
headed.” 

“That makes anything possible,” Steve went on. “If 
we only knew what Miss Vickery had found out!” He 
glanced at Ann’s still figure. “Inspector Duveen, we 
ought to be ashamed of ourselves! To let this poor 
youngster . . 

“Yes,” Duveen said. “I feel that way myself. But so 
help me God . . .” 

A stir outside the door and the doctor, with Jean Kirby, 
came into the room. An elderly, tight-lipped man, silent 
with the silence of one whose words are important. He 
made a swift examination, called for boiling water. 

“The young lady has been strangled,” he announced. 
“She also has a bad scalp wound, a concussion of the 
brain. I do not think she is in any immediate danger, but 
absolute quiet, rest, are essential, of course. I shall send 
for a nurse . . .” 

“How long?” the Inspector asked, “before she’ll be 
able to talk ? I’m Assistant Superintendent Duveen, of the 
Detective Bureau, doctor,” he added. 

“Not for many hours. Days, perhaps. She has under- 




226 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


gone a severe and almost fatal shock.” The physician 
scrubbed the white surface of Ann’s forearm with a bit 
of moist cotton, inserted the needle of a hypodermic 
syringe. “The greatest care will be necessary, if she is to 
recover. I suggest,” he stared coldly from the Inspector 
to Steve Ransom, “that you gentlemen leave the room!” 

Steve bent over, touched his lips to Ann’s forehead. 

“Of course,” he said, rising. “Of course. And about the 
nurse ... ?” 

“Miss Kirby will telephone for her. I shall remain with 
the patient until help arrives.” He gave Jean a number. 

Ann Vickery began to speak, then, broken, scarcely 
breathed words, unintelligible to all those in the room 
except one. 

“That nail!” she muttered, turning her head restlessly as 
the doctor sponged the deep wound in her scalp . . . 
“that crooked fingernail! Oh . . . Steve darling . . . 
look out! So dangerous! So very dangerous! ... oh 
. . . it hurts ... it hurts . . . !” 

Steve Ransom, at the door, drew back his shoulders. 
Understanding grew in his furious eyes. 

“You’ll stay here with her, doctor?” he muttered. “You 
won’t leave her alone?” 

“Of course not! I shouldn’t think of it . . .’’The doctor 
glanced up with an impatient frown. 

Steve touched the Inspector’s arm. 

“Let’s go!” he said harshly. “I know how to find the 
murderer now!” 




XXVI 


“What’s the idea,” Inspector Duveen asked, jamming 
an impatient foot on the gas, “of stopping by Dr. 
Badouine’s first? I’ve got to round up these suspects 
... get hold of Senator Kirby . . . Luke Reed . . . that 
Mitchell woman . . .” 

“I promised the doctor,” Steve said, “to let him know 
the results of our talk with Miss Vickery.” 

“What good will that do?” The Inspector regarded 
Steve doubtfully out of the corner of one eye. “You said 
you knew how to find the murderer. I take it from that 
you mean Mrs. Kirby started to yell what she did because 
whoever was trying to choke her had a crooked finger¬ 
nail. If that’s true, it ought to be easy enough to identify 
the killer.” 

Steve glanced down at the Inspector’s right forefinger, 
outstretched along the rim of the steering wheel. The 
nail of it had been cut down to a blunt triangle by the 
splinter of shrapnel which had mangled the rest of his 
hand. 

“Inspector Duveen,” he said. “I’m no Sherlock Holmes. 
I don’t pretend to know anything about detective work. 
But it seems to me that identifying the murderer by 


228 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


means of a malformed fingernail, without some ad¬ 
ditional proof isn’t going to help us any. Our man . . . 
or woman . . . would probably say ‘So what?’ Just as 
you would,” Steve went on, touching the Inspector’s lean 
forefinger . . . “if somebody accused you.” 

“Right.” Duveen shrugged his powerful shoulders. 
“You think Badouine can tell us something?” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “I think he can. Dr. Badouine is a 
very clever, a very intelligent man. I hope, when we see 
him, to find out why Mrs. Kirby cried out those peculiar 
words. And I’m going to ask him because I believe he 
can tell us what we want to know. If I’m right, you’ll 
have more than a crooked fingernail to go on. If I’m 
wrong, there won’t be much time lost.” 

Duveen grunted, whirling the car into K Street. The 
doctor’s house was dimly lighted. Steve followed his 
companion up the steps, waited. A pleasant-faced Negro 
answered the bell. 

“No, suh,” he grinned, “the doctuh ain’t in jes’ now; 
got a call fum the hospittle ’round dinner time; he’s been 
gone a right smart while. Reckon you all better come in 
and wait; he tole me he was expectin’ a gen’man later.” 

“Right,” Steve said. “We will.” 

“You’ll find seats in here.” The Negro ushered them 
into a waiting room. “Rest youh hats.” 

“Well,” Duveen grumbled, staring about. “We got 
nothing but time.” 

Steve went to the rear of the room, pushed open a door. 

“Consulting office, back there,” he announced. “You 
know I’ve been here before. Secretary sits at this desk.” 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


229 


He indicated an alcove between the two rooms. “I won¬ 
der where the doctor keeps his car.” 

“All these old houses have garages in back,” Duveen 
said. “Stables, fixed over. What difference does it make 
where he keeps his car?” 

“Not a bit, to me,” Steve laughed, throwing himself 
into a chair. “I was just wondering if he’d be coming in 
the front way or the rear.” 

The immediate sharp closing of a door at the end of the 
hall, followed by quick footsteps, answered the question. 
Dr. Badouine, physician’s bag in hand, was smiling at 
them from the open doorway. 

“Hello, Ransom,” he exclaimed, putting out his hand. 
“Hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long. And you, 
Inspector! Did my man explain? I left word with him. 
That troublesome homicidal case, Ransom, I mentioned 
before. I’m a bit tired. Perhaps a dose of spiritus jrumenti 
would do us all good. Simms,” he called down the hall, 
“glasses, and a bowl of ice. Sit down, gentlemen. I’m 
very eager to hear what light Miss Vickery was able to 
throw on your murder problem, Inspector.” 

“Not much,” Duveen said gloomily. “The poor girl 
has been very nearly murdered herself.” 

“What? You can’t mean it. But . . . why? And by 
whom?” The doctor’s luminous eyes blazed. 

“By the murderer, I suppose,” the Inspector went on. 
“To keep her from talking. But she did mutter a couple 
of words.” He glanced at Steve. 

“Do they afford any clue?” • 

“That is a question I want to ask you,” Steve said. “Miss 




230 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


Vickery has a brain concussion. She may be unconscious, 
too ill to answer any questions, for some time. All she said, 
in her delirium, was ‘That nail . . . that crooked finger¬ 
nail!”’ 

“Fingernail?” Dr. Badouine’s face showed complete 
surprise. “Then, if she really heard what she thinks, it 
would seem that Mrs. Kirby, at the moment of her death, 
was commenting on the shape of someone’s fingernail.” 

“Of her murderer’s fingernail, let us say,” Steve cor¬ 
rected. 

“Possibly. But why?” 

“Because the person was disguised, and only the sudden 
sight of that peculiar nail caused Mrs. Kirby to recognize 
him! The moment she did, she must have cried out, at 
the same time clutching at his wig!” 

“Of course,” Dr. Badouine agreed, regarding the In¬ 
spector with a curious, questioning smile. 

“The words that rushed to her lips,” Steve went on, 
“and were overheard by Miss Vickery in the room above, 
came from anger, mixed with amazement, because this 
man she had so dramatically exposed was perhaps the 
last person in the world she expected to find trying to 
blackmail her! That swift anger caused her death; she 
was throttled before she could alarm the house, bring on 
him the ruin, the disgrace, his exposure would have 
caused.” 

Dr. Badouine nodded slowly, thoughtfully. 

“The reconstruction seems to me logical,” he said, “pro¬ 
vided Miss Vickery actually heard any such words. Un¬ 
fortunately we have only her statement to that effect, and 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


231 


while I do not mean to question the girl’s veracity she 
might easily have been mistaken. My own thought was 
that Mrs. Kirby tried to say something like blackmail.” 

“Yes,” Steve said. “I know.” 

“Granting, however, that your theory is right,” Dr. 
Badouine went on, “I don’t quite see the value of it, from 
an evidential standpoint. Many persons have misshapen 
fingernails, the result of accident, or disease. In fact, I 
happen to possess one myself.” He held out a slim, well- 
manicured hand. “This index finger. I split the end of 
it when I was a boy, doing some carpentry work, and the 
wound, not properly cared for, healed badly . . . left a 
rough diagonal ridge across the nail. But it would be pos¬ 
sible to find hundreds, even thousands, of persons in 
Washington with similar malformations, and yet be no 
nearer a solution of the problem of Mrs. Kirby’s murder 
than before. Thank you, Simms.” He turned to the 
Negro, entering the room with a tray. “Put it there on 
the table. I’ll get the whiskey myself.” 

The servant put the tray down, went out. Inspector 
Duveen was nodding but he seemed puzzled. 

“Was it your idea, Mr. Ransom,” he said, “that Dr. 
Badouine could tell us something that would help identify 
Mrs. Kirby’s murderer?” 

“Yes.” Steve’s eyes met the doctor’s sombrely. “He 
could tell us, if Mrs. Kirby sat, day after day, across a 
desk talking to a man who had the habit of drumming 
on it with his finger tips, whether she wouldn’t be likely 
to notice such a peculiar nail ? And to recognize it, later 
on, if it happened to come suddenly to her attention?” 



232 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Of course,” the doctor replied. “Almost inevitably, I 
should say. But first, we must find such a man. And 
second, having found him, must prove, if we can, that 
the purely hypothetical train of events you have suggested 
actually took place. A most interesting speculation. I 
shall enjoy discussing it with you. But first, let us have 
our little drink; the ice is beginning to melt. I keep my 
fine whiskey under lock and key. In a closet adjoining 
my bedroom. Sit down, gentlemen, while I get a bottle; 
it will take me only a moment.” He picked up his black 
leather bag, started for the hall. 

“Wait a minute, doctor,” Steve said harshly. 

“Yes?” Dr. Badouine turned, smiling. “Anything I 
can do?” 

“If you will. A moment ago you said that we must 
first find a man with a deformed fingernail whom Mrs. 
Kirby saw, talked to frequently, and second prove that 
this man, disguised as a woman, murdered her. I have 
a man in mind who fulfills perfectly the first conditions. 
Will you help me prove, or disprove, the second?” 

“Why, certainly. But how can I?” 

“By opening that satchel in your hand!” Steve pointed 
to the physician’s black bag. 

“But this is ridiculous.” Dr. Badouine’s suave face was 
suddenly red. “It contains only my medicines, my drugs.” 

“So I should suppose,” Steve went on quietly, “and 
hence there is no reason why you should not open it.” 

“You are insulting, Mr. Ransom!” 

“But . . . why? I said prove, or disprove, remem¬ 
ber . . 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


233 


“Nonsense!” Dr. Badouine stood suddenly at bay in the 
doorway, the satchel clutched firmly in his hand. “I am 
under no obligation to prove anything to you, certainly not 
what my medical bag contains. As for you, Inspector, I 
am sure you are too able and intelligent a police officer 
not to know that you cannot open this bag, or require me 
to open it, without a search warrant. I am sorry if I seem 
disobliging, but both as a physician and a man I resent 
Mr. Ransom’s humiliating suspicions. Good night!” He 
started for the stairs. Inspector Duveen did not move to 
stop him. 

“My God!” Steve groaned, “don’t you know he’ll burn 
it before you can get back with a warrant?” 

“Can’t do a thing,” Duveen groaned. “That’s the law. 
If you happened to be wrong . . .” 

Steve wheeled on the doctor, now smiling at him from 
the foot of the stairs. His slow, ironic smile, mixed with 
a memory of Ann’s deathly white face, exploded in Steve 
Ransom’s brain like a torpedo. His left fist shot out, then 
his right, in the old familiar one-two. Dr. Badouine 
crashed against the newel post, hung over it, dazed. With 
a snarl of anger Steve tore open the bag. 

“Here’s your proof!” he exclaimed, hurling at the In¬ 
spector’s feet a wig, a pair of satin ties, a velvet toque, 
a one-piece dress, a woman’s black cloth coat, tightly 
rolled. 




XXVII 


Ann Vickery leaned back against the pillows of the 
big Du Barry bed. She felt thankful to be alive, especially 
on such a morning, so sweet and heady with the odors of 
spring. The air outside, still and very clear, was filled 
with innumerable sparks of sunshine, like the flecks of 
gold-leaf in a glass of Eau de Vie de Dantzig. Sweet and 
intoxicating. Especially to one somewhat weak after 
three pain-racked days in bed. She glanced at Steve, 
standing near the window and liked the fine dust of 
freckles over his nose. 

Across the room Nicolas de Zara was sitting in a chair 
too small for him, holding Jean Kirby’s hand. A giant, 
but rather of the story-book variety, Ann decided, huge, 
simple, good-natured. Jean, beside him, still looked like 
a marble Venus, but no longer new marble, chalk-white; 
there were warm tones in her cheeks that made Ann 
think, with a shudder, of the mellow Greek vase in which 
she had once set a cluster of blue hydrangeas! Since that 
tragic day a cloud of horror had enveloped Halfway 
House, dark and threatening; she hoped it was gone, 
now. 

Beyond Jean and de Zara, Judge Tyson was chatting 


234 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


235 


with Miss Webster, her nurse. No suggestion of tragedy 
showed itself in the Judge’s pink and cherubic face; he 
was smiling at the girl like a whiskerless Santa Claus. 
Ann felt her injured head: she herself had come closer 
to that horror than any of the others in the room. Closer 
to death . . . 

The door suddenly opened and Senator Kirby, harsh 
and bristling, stalked in; behind him came Inspector 
Duveen. 

The Inspector, to judge from his smile, felt at peace 
wkh the world. Even with the Senator, in spite of their 
recent differences. He nodded genially to the others, 
went up to Ann and took her hand. 

“Well, young woman,” he said, “you were right; he’s 
confessed. How are you feeling this morning?” 

“Fine,” Ann said. “Although my head still hurts.” 

“Ought to.” The Inspector grinned. “With seven 
stitches in it. A close shave . . .” 

“Yes.” Ann’s hand went to her bandages. “I’m glad 
these keep you from seeing how close; I told the doctor I 
hoped I’d have a few stray locks left.” 

“It will grow out.” The Inspector sat on the edge of 
the bed. “Feel equal to telling me how you knew, about 
that fingernail? Of course I’ve always said a woman’s 
guess . . .” 

“It wasn’t exactly a guess,” Ann grinned. “Dr. Badou- 
ine came here, the day of the inquest, to see Mr. Ransom, 
but he’d gone back to the hotel. The doctor and I talked, 
in the garden. When I lit a cigarette he struck a match 
for me, held it. With that crooked fingernail right under 



236 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


my nose. So I thought, if that had been what Mrs. Kirby 
meant,” Ann hesitated, glancing at the Senator near the 
foot of the bed, “that maybe Dr. Badouine . . 

“Go on!” Kirby’s sallow, gaunt face remained impas¬ 
sive. “We are here for that purpose.” 

“So I called up Mr. Ransom, at the hotel, and told 
him a little, not much. I was afraid to mention names, al¬ 
though I didn’t know of course that Dr. Badouine had 
gone to the hotel, was sitting right there in the room.” 

“With me,” Steve groaned, “tipping him off that you 
had discovered the name of the murderer, and were going 
to wait around in that dark garden until I showed up at 
nine o’clock! I ought to get a flock of Carnegie medals, 
for that!” 

“You couldn’t know,” Ann said sofdy, “and anyway, 
you did arrive in time . . .” 

“Just luck!” Steve snapped. 

“No.” The Inspector shook his head. “He was so wor¬ 
ried about you, Miss Vickery, all through our drive out, he 
couldn’t talk. I’m the one who should have tumbled to 
the doctor’s little game, long before; it was my job . . .” 

“Just what was his game?” Senator Kirby growled. 
“You say he’s confessed. Why should a man like that 
take to murdering people?” 

“Dr. Badouine hadn’t any idea of committing murder,” 
the Inspector interrupted, “when he started out. Here’s 
his story. Expensive tastes ... a small income. Six or 
eight thousand, at the outside. One of the most expensive 
things he wanted was Mrs. Conover. She was to divorce 
her husband so they could be married. Her idea seems 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


237 


to have been that they would go to Paris together; get 
the divorce, then start a long Continental honeymoon. 
You can’t do that on conversation and kisses; the doctor 
figured he’d need jack. A lot of jack. 

“How to get it? Well, poor Mrs. Kirby had plenty and 
he’d been psycho-analyzing for her for a year, knew all 
her intimate secrets. Among others, that she had imagined 
herself, for a time at least, in love with Count de 
Zara.” 

The Count turned crimson, but Jean still held his hand. 

“An affair pour passer le temps,” he muttered. “Not 
serious. The poor lady, in Cannes, was lonely, bored. I 
amused her, no more. As a souvenir of an innocent 
flirtation she wrote an indiscreet message on a snapshot, 
‘Toujours; it meant nothing at all.” 

“When Mrs. Kirby found out,” the Inspector went on, 
frowning, “that the Count, who had come to this coun¬ 
try, wanted to marry her daughter she objected. Vanity 
. . . what not . . . her reasons don’t matter now. The 
important thing is that she told Dr. Badouine, during 
one of their psyching sessions, about the picture, was 
terribly worried, for fear the Count might make use of it, 
to force her consent to the marriage. Mentioned the fact 
that he kept all his letters and odier souvenirs in a 
certain steel box.” 

“So that’s how he knew!” Steve said. 

“Yes. When the doctor heard it, he planned to get hold 
of the picture. It was simple enough, to ask the Count to 
show his Napoleon letter . . . figuring he’d leave the 
box open for a while . . 



23 B 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“I do not,” de Zara muttered indignantly, “expect 
guests in my house to steal!” 

“Sure.” The Inspector agreed. “That’s the way Dr. 
Badouine figured it. And Dane saw him make the 
pinch.” 

“That was a bad break for Dane,” Steve said, frowning. 

“It was. Of course he didn’t know what it meant, then. 
Just somebody lifting a picture. Didn’t know, after 
Mrs. Kirby was killed, even, because I’d kept the fact of the 
picture being found, out of the newspapers. It was only 
when you, Mr. Ransom, talked to him that he began to 
connect the two things up.” 

The Inspector paused for a time. Nobody spoke, and he 
presently resumed his story. 

“I want to straighten matters out, about Dane,” he said. 
“From all I can learn, he didn’t write you, Senator Kirby, 
or Mrs. Kirby, with any idea of blackmail.” Duveen 
turned to Judge Tyson. “You were wrong, too, Judge, 
about that. Too quick to read between the lines. All he 
wanted was to raise money for a permanent stock com¬ 
pany here in Washington, with himself as leading man. 
Just a poor ham actor trying to get along. But to go 
back to Badouine. 

“He now had his story for Mrs. Kirby, with a photo¬ 
graph inscribed in her own handwriting to back it up. 
Something he could sell, for cash. And since he couldn’t 
do the negotiating himself, and was afraid to trust a third 
party, he framed up the character of a Frenchwoman, a 
Madame Cardon, who claimed to have been at Cannes at 





DESIGN FOR MURDER 


239 


the time and knew the whole works. Wrote Mrs. Kirby, 
in that name, demanding money. And Mrs. Kirby goes 
to the doctor and tells him about it, consults him, with 
the result that he advises her, for the sake of her health 
and nerves, to pay. 

“That’s why she had the bonds in her wall safe, all 
ready to turn over, in exchange for the picture, and a 
promise on the part of the phony Madame Cardon to go 
back to France and stay there . . . one of the few prom¬ 
ises, I guess, that the doctor really meant to keep. He was 
going to France, all right, with Mrs. Conover. 

“Well, the engagment was made, for Madame Cardon 
to come and collect, bringing the picture. On a night 
when the family were all out and the servants and Miss 
Vickery had been sent off to bed. It was easy, for 
Badouine, with his slim figure, his dark eyes, to make up 
as a Frenchwoman. He’d played woman’s parts in col¬ 
lege theatricals, he tells me, and still had some of the 
stuff he used, left in a trunk. He dressed in the garage 
. . . in his car . . . didn’t change anything but his shoes 
and socks. See what I mean? Trousers rolled, pinned 
up, skirt, long woman’s coat, put on over them ... a 
soft scarf around his neck ... a wig . . . small velvet 
toque. When he got home, driving in the backway, all 
he had to do was take off a few things, pqt ’em in his 
little satchel and walk into the house . . . very neat. 

“Everything was jake, Mrs. Kirby got the picture, 
swung back the china medallion to open the wall safe, 
and just then the doctor happened to put up a hand to 




240 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


straighten his toque . . . and Mrs. Kirby saw that crooked 
fingernail. It wasn’t as if she’d only seen the thing once 
or twice before. Dr. Badouine had sat across his desk 
from her dozens of times and he had a habit of drumming 
on it with the tips of his fingers. Mrs. Kirby knew that 
crooked nail as well as she knew her own name and the 
moment she saw it, she screamed out the fact, grabbed at 
the doctor’s wig! 

“That was fatal. He had to stop her, or she would 
have roused the house. By one of those mistakes that 
crooks so often make, he’d forgotten completely about his 
peculiar fingernail. Having had the mark most of his 
life, he never thought of it as something that might give 
him away. So he choked Mrs. Kirby, and afterwards 
killed her, so she couldn’t talk, and expose him. Drove 
the sharp metal penholder into her spine . . . for a man 
who had studied medicine that was simple; he knew just 
where to find the vital spot. During the short struggle 
Mrs. Kirby’s necklace was broken. Badouine picked up 
the pearls, all but the one he accidentally missed, think¬ 
ing they were real. Put them in his pocket, congratulating 
himself that even if he hadn’t got the bonds, couldn’t 
open the safe to get them, he was almost as well off, hav¬ 
ing the necklace. He’d already switched on the radio to 
cover any noises he might make, pushed forward the 
hands of the clock to make it strike twelve, thinking that 
if anyone had happened to hear Mrs. Kirby call out, they 
would swear she had been alive at twelve o’clock ... at 
which hour he was back at his house, talking to his 
Negro servant about the message that had just come in 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


241 


over the phone, calling him here. He’d left his car in the 
lane of course ... it was seen there ... a grey sedan, 
not unlike Mr. Ransom’s.” 

“Clever, damned clever,” Senator Kirby muttered. 

“He was smart, all right . . . even to changing his 
voice, putting on a heavy French accent, to deceive Mrs. 
Kirby. But he made some mistakes, as I’ve already said. 
Turning on the radio was one of them; the song on the 
program proved the clock a liar when it struck twelve 
. . . thanks to Miss Vickery’s sharp ears. Still, his mis¬ 
takes weren’t serious ones. We, the police, hadn’t a thing 
on him . . . nothing at all to connect him with Mrs. 
Kirby’s murder, or even suspect him of it. And next day 
he did a clever thing. Having discovered, overnight, that 
the pearls were not real, that he’d come away with a 
bunch of imitations, he had the nerve to bring them back 
here, using as an excuse a professional call on Miss Kirby, 
and when no one was around, dumped them in that 
flower vase! His idea, he claims, was to throw suspicion 
on someone in the house, which it did. Just as leaving 
behind him the now useless snapshot was to throw sus¬ 
picion on Count de Zara, or Senator Kirby. Quick think¬ 
ing, believe me. Personally, watching the man as he made 
his confession, I think he is a little insane. Doctors who 
treat mental cases sometimes get that way, they tell me. 
Anyhow, he fooled us completely. Even last night, 
we hadn’t any real evidence against him, wouldn’t have 
had, if Mr. Ransom hadn’t taken the law in his hands and, 
on a chance, opened his medical bag, found his disguise. 
Once he’d destroyed that, he could have laughed at us. 





242 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


I wonder he didn’t, before, but I suppose he thought him¬ 
self safe, and might need the things again, later.” 

“How?” Ann said, “did he kill Lawrence Dane, and 
get away with it?” 

“That,” Duveen replied, “was even more clever. “First, 
he went to the theatre, wearing his woman’s disguise, 
around nine-thirty, at a time when he knew Dane would 
be on stage. He had the little vial of aconitine in a purse 
he carried, and a bottle of Scotch whiskey, already 
opened, under his coat. It took him only a moment to 
poison the bottle Dane had been drinking from. The 
fresh one he hid in a corner. Then he drove home, only 
five or six minutes from the theatre, took off his disguise, 
came back again in time to meet Mr. Ransom in the lobby 
at ten. But figure the cleverness of the man . . . that’s 
one reason I think he is insane. He brought that empty 
poison vial with him, watched Mr. Ransom get out of his 
car, go into the lobby, and then planted the empty vial 
in the dashboard compartment, stuck into one of Miss 
Vickery’s gloves.” 

“You say he brought the bottle of White Label Scotch 
with him on his first visit?” Steve asked. 

“Yes. That was sheer genius. As soon as the two of 
you found Dane lying dead, the doctor sent you out of 
the room to call the police. Then he took the fresh 
bottle from where he’d hidden it, poured out enough of 
to liquor to make it correspond with the poisoned bottle, 
made the switch. The poisoned whiskey went down the 
sink . . . the wash basin . . . and the empty bottle went 
into Dane’s wardrobe, along with a lot of other empties. 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


243 


No one would notice another dead one . . . Dane drank a 
fifth of Scotch a day. And that little device made it un¬ 
necessary for the doctor to carry an empty bottle away 
with him, which might have been dangerous, if anyone 
had happened to notice the bulge under his coat. The 
whole scheme was fool-proof . . . perfect . . . except for 
the matter of the cork.” 

“How did he know, in advance,” Judge Tyson asked, 
“the brand of Scotch Dane drank ? He must have known 
that.” 

“I’m afraid,” Steve said gloomily, “that I told him. 
Sometimes I think I talk too much.” 

“Don’t blame yourself, Mr. Ransom,” Duveen said. 
“No trouble to find out. Dane, as a matter of fact, told 
the doctor at de Zara’s studio party that night how he 
always drank White Label Scotch ... he was nuts about 
it.” 

“And why did Dr. Badouine feel it necessary to kill 
him?” the Senator asked. 

“Because he realized, from what Mr. Ransom told him, 
that Dane had seen him steal the photograph that night 
. . . and would say so the moment he was arrested and 
questioned. The doctor’s number would have been up, 
then. No chance for an out, with that picture found under 
the dead woman’s head. 

“The worst feature of the doctor’s position, as soon as 
he found out that Mrs. Kirby’s cry of recognition had been 
heard, was his damaged fingernail. That had him 
stumped. To have attempted to remove, amputate it 
would have been worse than useless since any number of 






244 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


persons must have seen the disfigurement, in the past 
. . . could testify to it. Such an attempt would only have 
drawn attention to the fact. So he had to fall back on 
the pretense of assisting Mr. Ransom, the police, in our 
investigations. Fed us false clues, such as arguing Mrs. 
Kirby must have said ‘Blackmail.’ Even asserting, at the 
end, that you, Senator Kirby, had made homicidal attacks 
on your wife.” 

“Scoundrel!” Kirby growled. “I never liked him.” 

“A smart one, though,” Duveen said, “too smart, I 
guess, for his own good. This morning, down at Head¬ 
quarters, I got him to put on that disguise for us . . . 
had him photographed. He didn’t mind a bit . . . seemed 
rather proud of it ... a nut, all right. Would you be¬ 
lieve me, using that assumed voice, a French accent, I 
wouldn’t have known him, right there in broad daylight, 
let alone night! Perfect! A smart guy!” 

Steve turned from the window. 

“He gave himself away to me once,” he said, “but I 
was too dumb to realize it. That night at the theatre. He’d 
told me he had never seen the play before. But when I 
began to explain the climax of the second act to him, 
he said ‘I know.’ He couldn’t have known, unless he’d 
seen the show before, and of course he must have seen 
it, to be sure Dane would be on the stage, and not in the 
dressing room, when he went to poison his liquor during 
the second act. Last night, as soon as Miss Vickery said 
what she did about a crooked fingernail, I remembered 
having sat across from Dr. Badouine for an hour, once, 
in his office, watching him drum on his desk with his 




DESIGN FOR MURDER 


245 


finger tips, and that one of his nails was deformed. So I 
thought if we drove to his house at once, we might catch 
him with that disguise in his possession.” 

“It was great work, son!” The Inspector grinned. “We 
were only just in time, though. Luckily for us, the 
doctor wasted fifteen minutes driving around back alleys 
to be sure he wasn’t being tailed. And of course he had 
to stop awhile in his garage to remove the disguise and 
make-up.” 

Senator Kirby put out his hand. 

“I, too, young man,” he muttered, “am profoundly 
grateful . . . urrrhm . . . keeping my name out of the 
newspapers ... as a member of the United States Sen¬ 
ate . . . urrhm . . .” 

“Don’t mention it,” Steve said, smiling broadly. 

“And,” the Senator went on, frowning at the inter¬ 
ruption, “if I may offer you gentlemen some refreshment, 
come along to my study . . .” 

“You’ll have to go anyway, now,” the nurse said, ad¬ 
justing Ann’s pillows. “Dr. Hall gave her only half an 
hour.” 

Steve winked at the nurse, waited until the others had 
left the room. 

“Angel!” he whispered. 

“No wings and harp yet, thank you!” Ann laughed 

back. 

“Will you be my secretary?” 

“I will not!” 

“Collaborator?” 

“Never! Much too exciting.” 





246 


DESIGN FOR MURDER 


“Inspiration?” 

“Not in my line.” 

“Can’t we work together in any capacity?” 

“Why not? I’m an interior decorator. How about the 
stage sets for your next play?” 

“Fair enough. Take a note, please, Miss Vickery. 
Act I, Scene I . . . Living Room in the Ransom’s Charm¬ 
ing Bungalow on Long Island. Up Center, Large Open 
Fireplace, with Easy Chairs Right and Left. Practical Log 
Fire . . . Table with Books . . .” 

“Time for your medicine, miss,” the nurse said. 

“I thought it was.” Ann grinned up into Steve’s face. 
“Kiss me.” It was a long kiss. “We’re around that corner 
now.” 

Essential! Terribly so! Painfully . . . 


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